


Emancipation

by waywardseraph



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Community: spnkink_meme, Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester in Love, Dean and Sam are not related, Depressed Dean, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gang Rape, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Lawyer Sam, Lawyer Sam Winchester, M/M, Murder, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prison, Rape, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, non-brother AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-07-11 12:16:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 39
Words: 41,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7050610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardseraph/pseuds/waywardseraph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Non-brother AU.</p><p>The law doesn't look kindly on slaves who kill their masters, even abusive assholes like Dean's. After putting up with the abuse for years, Dean snapped. No regrets. Now he's in prison awaiting trial and fighting off guys after his pretty ass.</p><p>Sam is the young public defender assigned to Dean's case. He figures it'll be a quick conviction and then back to more exciting work, but then he meets his client and decides he's going to put his all into getting Dean cleared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> Supernatural doesn't belong to me. ;)
> 
> This is a kink meme fill; original prompt posted by 3oclockrock on livejournal.
> 
> The first few chapters are short, sorry. It's still a work in progress, but I'm hoping to get back into writing it and finishing it soon.
> 
> For my 'lizbeth, the love of my life, who knows that sometimes the best therapy is writing things out, no matter how dark.

**i.**

There are a lot of things that they don’t teach you in law school, and Sam Winchester has learned several of them in the past year.

The first is that people, as a whole, generally suck. In his tenure at the public defender’s office, slaving away for barely a livable wage, Sam has come across some sick puppies – sociopaths, remorseless lizards who stare at you with flat eyes while they detail how they carved up their own family members. And those aren’t even the worst. The worst are the ones who enjoyed it, the sadists whose lips twist into a sick parody of joy as they describe what they did. What they will do again if Sam does his job and gets them a reduced sentence for their butchery.

The second is that no one is innocent. That whole Hollywood schtick with the wrongly convicted man and the dutiful public defender demonstrating to a jury that his client was railroaded? Yeah, that doesn’t happen. At least, it sure hasn’t happened to Sam or anyone else at the public defender’s office. 

The third is that, eventually, to survive in this job, you just can’t give a shit anymore. Because if you do care, you’re going to burn out, and burn out spectacularly, and Sam can’t afford to burn out. He has dreams of being a criminal defense lawyer someday, a real one who gets to display his skills instead of just pleading out at every opportunity, and he can’t do that if he lets this place get to him. He can’t let his clients get to him.

Famous last words.


	2. ii.

**ii.**

Jail is no place for pretty boys.

Dean glances at his reflection in the scratched mirror. Split lip. Black eye. Not bad. Not even close to what he suffered at the hands of his “master,” and he’d given back better than he’d gotten this time, that’s for sure. He might be pretty, but he’s pretty damned tough, too. Growing up as he had, living as he had, experiencing everything he had…well, they’d tried to fuck with the wrong guy, and now the infirmary has two more beds filled.

He splashes some water on his face, pats it dry with his shirt. He can feel the guards’ eyes on him as they pass by his cell. Here forty-eight hours and already thrown in solitary confinement. 

They know why he’s here. Everyone does. Prisoner 7432970-S. No first name, no last name, just an “S” tacked on the end of some random number to designate his status as “slave.” Charged with first degree murder of his former master, which essentially means a death sentence once the sham trial is over. Walking dead man.

Dean spits into the sink. Whatever. Jail is no worse than anywhere else he’s been. He’s not afraid – of jail, of death, of anything. He’s forgotten how to feel fear.


	3. iii.

**iii.**

Sam takes a few sips of water and glances down at the manila folder in front of him as he waits for the guards to bring in his newest client. The folder only contains a few sheets of paper – a brief description of the crime, a few sentences about the accused, and the crime scene photographs. He flips through them and lets out a low whistle. This murder was savage.

Slaves killing their masters aren’t exactly uncommon, but this slave will be the first one Sam has defended. These cases are notoriously simple in the public defender world, because there’s virtually only one sentence available: execution. 

His new client enters the room with a pair of guards flanking him, his legs shackled and his hands cuffed to a chain looped around his stomach. Sam looks down at the crime scene photos one last time before closing the folder, and he can’t blame the guards for being more than a little cautious with this one. Just about anyone could slit the throat of a man, but this…this was pure carnage. A blood bath.

The prisoner lowers himself down in the chair and stares unblinkingly at Sam. “You’re the lawyer?”

Sam nods and stretches out his hand, letting it dangle in the air for a second before sheepishly shoving it into the pocket of his cheap suit. His fingers brush against an old gum wrapper, and he wads it into a ball as he speaks. “I’m Sam Winchester, your public defender.”

One corner of the prisoner’s mouth contorts into a fleeting half-smile. “You barely look old enough to shave.”

Sam can’t say the same thing about Prisoner 7432970-S. Although he knows that the shackled man is only a few years older than him, those years apparently have not been kind. The prisoner’s close-cropped hair is already noticeably threaded with silver, and his face is lined and tired-looking. 

“So.” The prisoner stretches a little and raises his eyebrows, which only serves to highlight a small puckered scar just above his right eye. “You really planning on defending me? I hate to tell you this, but I think it’ll be a waste of your time. I think we both know where I’m going to end up once this is all through, and it sure ain’t Disneyland.”

“I aim to do my best.” 

“Your best ain’t going to do me a damned bit of good, Sammy.” There’s something unnerving in the prisoner’s stare. Another half-smile, and then the nameless prisoner rises from his chair. “No matter what you do, you know I’m still going to do a little dance with ol’ Sparky in the end.” He jerks his head towards the guards. “We’re done here.”


	4. iv.

**iv.**

But Sam isn’t done. He’s staring at the ceiling of his crappy studio apartment, tossing and turning and remembering the prisoner’s words. 

He doesn’t know why the slave is bothering him; everything he said is the truth. No matter how hard Sam tries, no matter what he does, that prisoner is going to end up in the electric chair in a few months, strapped in tight. 

But it doesn’t seem right. Something is…off. Those crime scene photographs – there was rage there, written as plain as day, and that kind of boiling anger doesn’t just form overnight without provocation. Something had happened to that slave; something had pushed him over the edge, and Sam wants to know what it is. 

The fourth thing that they don’t teach you in law school is: a client is going to come along who challenges all of your preconceived notions, who gets under your skin for some reason, and Sam has just met his.


	5. v.

**v.**

The guard is leering at him.

The guy is trying to be subtle, but Dean has lived most of his life as prey. He can tell when he’s caught a predator’s gaze, and the guard is definitely a predator, even though he doesn’t say a word as he escorts Dean from his cell to his twice-weekly shower. 

It’s only when the door to the lone shower stall for solitary prisoners clicks shut that the guard shows his true self. Most of the other guards in solitary pat you down, then let you slide the ripped and moldy shower curtain shut for some modicum of privacy. But not this dude. He seems to like the pat down a little too much, his hands roaming along Dean’s inner thighs and slipping down the front of his draw-string pants.

Dean twists away with a glare. “Piss off, pervert.”

The guy laughs as Dean glances down at his name patch sewn onto his uniform. Henricks. “Go on, take your shower.”

Dean turns around to face the wall, pulling the oversized shirt over his head and folding it neatly. The guard, no doubt, is getting a good view of his back, covered in scars more than smooth skin. _Let him look_. Let him figure out that Dean has survived a lot worse than anything this peon can dish out.

Henricks lets out a low whistle. “Must have pissed someone off pretty bad.”

“I’m told it’s a gift of mine.” Dean has a flashback to Master James taking a belt to his hide. A rope. A hose. A lamp. An iron rod. A baseball bat. Anything convenient, anything nearby, anything to make him bleed and hurt. Dean shakes his head and proceeds to slip off his pants.

“I’m sure that’s not your only gift.” There’s that leer again, verbal and unveiled this time, and bile rises in Dean’s throat. 

“Believe me, buddy, you don’t want to see my gifts.” Dean steps into the stall, pivots to pull the curtain, and doesn’t miss the guard’s eyes sliding down the length of his body.

“I like what I see so far.” Henricks’ hand shoots out and pushes the curtain away so hard that the rusted metal rings holding it up clang together. “I have a lot to offer, you know.”

It’s Dean’s turn to eye the guard, and he doesn’t make any attempt to disguise his loathing. “Yeah, somehow I seriously doubt that.” He turns on the water, so cold his teeth ache, willing the guard to just shut the fuck up already.

He can feel the fall of the water shift, and Dean knows that Henricks has stepped into the shower with him before he feels the arm snaking around his belly, pulling Dean back hard against him. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, pretty boy. I bet you’d love getting my cock up your cute little ass. Bet you’d squeal like a little pig and beg for more.”

Dean lashes out blindly, elbowing and scratching and kicking and biting, and for a few moments, the world seems to stop turning. He lets his rage run free in his veins, lets it curl and bloom within his limbs, and it’s like he’s outside of himself for a second, seeing Dean-but-not-Dean slamming the guard’s head into the tile, the blood splattering against the walls, into his mouth, and Dean-but-not-Dean licks his lips, tastes the coppery tang of the guard’s blood and god damn _smiles_.

And then he’s in full control again, and he’s still smashing Henricks’ head into the floor, even though the guard is only making soft gurgling noises in the back of his throat, and then Dean is sobbing and screaming but he just can’t stop. 

He just can’t stop.


	6. vi.

**vi.**

When Sam’s boss, Anna Milton, calls him into her office that morning, he instantly feels his stomach plummet. He likes Anna; she’s smart and funny and confident, and if he was straight, he would have asked her out long ago. But when she’s in business mode, like she is now, Anna scares the shit out of anyone working under her, Sam included. 

She sitting at her desk, her eyes dark and unreadable, as Sam enters her office. “Anna?” 

“Please shut the door, Sam.” 

Sam turns around to do as he’s told, all the while wondering what he did to piss Anna off this time. He’s already turned in his billable hours this pay period. He’s shown up on time to all of his court appearances, and he’s paid a visit to each of his active clients in the past ten days, including the crazy guy who shot up a liquor store for shits and giggles and is scheduled for a plea deal tomorrow. 

What did he do to make Anna angry with him?

He takes the seat across from Anna’s desk, his hand sliding into his coat pocket. It’s a nervous gesture, he knows that, but Sam is nervous, after all. 

“I received a call from the jail about your new client this morning, Sam.” She glances down at the folder in front of her, and Sam recognizes it instantly. It’s the one he had been poring over earlier this week. “Prisoner 7432970-S.”

The slave, then. Was he calling Anna to complain about him? Sam had just spoken to him a few days ago, and the guy had seemed less than eager to assist in his own defense. Sam had researched a few similar cases in the meantime, but he hadn’t found anything of use yet; they had all ended in virtually the same way.

“It seems that the prisoner put one of the guards into a coma. The doctors aren’t sure if the guard will ever regain consciousness.”

“ _What_?” Sam shoots up in the chair. “What happened?”

Anna shrugs one shoulder. “No one seems to know. The prisoner refuses to speak about it, and the guard, obviously, can’t shed any light on the event, either.” 

Sam is stunned into silence. What had happened in that prison? He’d been so sure that something had caused the slave to murder his master, but what if that isn’t the case? What if the slave is just violent? Just another sociopath?

But that just doesn’t ring true to him. He’s onto something; he can feel it in his gut. If he can get the prisoner to trust him, to tell him the truth, then Sam just knows that there will be something there, something _important_. He just isn’t sure what it is yet.

“Sam, this changes everything. We’re not going to be able to plea this one out now; we both know that. The court is going to make an example out of this slave, and we’re going to have to prepare a full no-holds-barred defense for him.” She arches one eyebrow. “Are you ready for that, or do I need to reassign the case to someone else?”

“What? Are you saying that you don’t think I can defend him properly?” Sam’s hands start to shake, and he balls them into fists so Anna won’t see.

“No, of course not. You’re a young, promising lawyer. But…” Anna glances down at the folder on her desk again, flips it open. “But this is going to be big, Sam. This is going to be…” She shuffles through the photos, shaking her head. “This might be the biggest case you’ve ever had, Sam. I need to know that you’re ready for it.”

“I am, Anna. I will be. I’ve already been stringing together some ideas for the defense.” Sam hopes that Anna will let him leave at that, but she raises her eyebrows, silently inviting him to continue.

Sam sighs and runs his fingers through his hair, another nervous gesture that he’s been trying to eradicate for years. “I was thinking about it, and I – I don’t want to aim for a reduced sentence. I don’t even want to aim for an acquittal. I want to take it all down, the whole system. Emancipation.”

He waits for Anna to laugh at him or to declare him crazy. Instead, she does neither of those things, merely blinking at him owlishly. “All right. Go on.”

“This case, Anna – this could be it.” Sam remembers those piercing green eyes staring at him from across the table, so different from his other clients. There had been a promise there: _make me trust you, and I will tell you things you can’t even begin to imagine_. “All eyes are going to be watching this case. It’s going to make national news. Even if it doesn’t work, people are going to hear the truth. This case, this slave, could really change the hearts and minds of people, Anna.”

“He just beat a guard into a coma, Sam. Why is he different from the other slaves that this office has defended in the past?”

“I don’t know, Anna – I can’t explain it, not yet. But I have to try, Anna.”

Anna turns away from him to stare out the window. “Okay.”

Sam’s prepared to launch into a better statement of his position, to argue that she has to allow him to take the chance; he stops, sputters, tries to regroup in the face of her easy acquiescence. “Okay?”

“I can’t just sit here anymore, watching the dam break as we try to shove out the water with a teaspoon. It needs to end. It isn’t right. I’ll stand by your defense.” Her voice is soft, inscrutable. “Go to the jail today, Sam. I’ll reassign your other cases. You’re going to need every waking moment you have to work on this.” 


	7. vii.

**vii.**

Sam stares at his client and wonders what in the hell he had just committed himself to back in Anna’s office. Obviously, he had been under the influence of some unknown hallucinogenic drug at the time. Or maybe he really _is_ crazy, and he just doesn’t realize it yet.

The prisoner’s face is mottled with fresh purple bruises, and he winces as he sits down in the metal chair, but Sam’s unsure if he sustained his injuries in the attack or in retaliation from some of the guard’s buddies. And, really, Sam doesn’t want to know, because either answer is painful to contemplate.

There are four guards glaring at the prisoner now, all milling outside the door and scowling angrily at the pair of them. One thing’s for sure – Sam wouldn’t want to be in his client’s shoes right now.

“Are you all right?” It’s the only thing that Sam can think of to ask, and even he realizes how stupid that sounds right about now.

The prisoner glances at him for a second. He’s obviously keyed up, edgy, on guard. _Yeah, I wonder why_ , Sam thinks sarcastically to himself, stifling a snort. 

“What happened?” Sam reaches across the table, intending to just rest his fingers on the prisoner’s forearm to get his attention, but his client flinches violently away, wrenching his body as far from Sam’s outstretched hand as possible. The guards at the door all snap their heads towards them, and Sam is reminded of a row of vultures on a wire, scenting their prey and just waiting for an opportune moment to dive at it. 

“Look, I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”

“I _never_ asked for your help,” the prisoner snarls, his voice low and dangerous and raw. “Leave me the fuck alone, Sammy, before I make you wish you had.”

“Okay.” Sam places his hands on the table between them, splaying his fingers, showing the prisoner that he means him no harm. “Let’s just sit here, then.”

His client eyes him warily, clearly suspicious.

“Hey, it’ll keep those guards off your ass for a while, right?”

The prisoner looks away, but Sam can see a flicker of pain in his face before he does. Sam’s stomach twists unexpectedly; he can’t be certain, but he thinks he’s stumbled onto something here. Something bad. 

He waits for the full hour, waiting for his client to speak, but they are both silent. Sam stares up at the flickering fluorescent light, willing the right words to come to him, and the prisoner’s eyes roam the room with undisguised ferocity.

And the fifth thing they don’t teach you in law school is that your ability to do your job hinges entirely on your client. You can be the best damned lawyer in the world, but if your client is unwilling to accept your help, you’re not going to be able to do jack shit.


	8. viii.

**viii.**

It’s coming. Dean just doesn’t know what or when. But something bad is stalking him, and the guards escorting him back to his cell won’t let him forget that. 

“You fuck with us, we’ll fuck back,” one of the guards growls before stomping his foot against Dean’s already-broken ribs. Dean grunts against the pain, an involuntary vocalization, and bites the inside of his cheek until he can feel the skin tear and the blood filling his mouth, slimy against his teeth. 

When the guards had found him earlier that morning, it had taken three of them to pull him off of Henricks. They’d pinned him against a wall, and though he’d struggled like a wild animal, he’d been unable to wrench free of them. They’d focused on getting their fallen comrade medical help, of course, but after Henricks was carted away on a stretcher, the beating had begun in earnest, a flurry of fists and booted feet against his face, his sides, his back. 

He’d endured worse. That’s what Dean told himself as the guards threw in a few more well-placed kicks before locking the cell door behind them.

But that whole bullshit about forgetting how to fear he’d said to himself a few days ago? Yeah…dumbass move to think that, even silently. As soon as you start believing shit like that, the universe takes it upon itself to prove how damned wrong you are.

And it’s coming.

He just doesn’t know what or when.

But it’s coming.


	9. ix.

**ix.**

Dean dreams of his mother for the first time in years that night. It pains him, but even in his dream, he can’t remember her face – only her soft hands, soothing and warm against his tear-stained face, and her even softer voice, whispering away his nightmares.

He’d been taken away from her when he was six years old, and Dean had never seen her again. He didn’t even know her name, the secret name that they gave their own kind, the name that was not mentioned to the masters and mistresses. To society in general, he was nameless, faceless, replaceable, bred only to serve their whims and desires. 

But to his mother, he had been Dean.

To his mother, he had been a little boy, lovable and precious, instead of mere chattel to be sold at auction to the pervert willing to pay the most for him. 

He wakes up gasping, his ribs on fire, and sits up in bed with a muffled groan of pain, bathed in sweat, his ears still ringing with the last words she had ever spoken to him.

“Remember, Dean, that you are loved. They can never take that away.”

They just take away everything else.


	10. x.

**x.**

The lawyer is either bullheaded or a moron. Dean can’t decide which just yet.

He’s yanked from his cell early the next morning, the guards subtly grinding their fists into his side as they march him down to the legal visiting room. His ribs ache under the new assault, but broken bones aren’t new to Dean, and he even manages to give them a cocky grin before they slam the door shut behind him. “Thanks for the escort, boys. It sure warms my heart to know you’re looking out for me.”

The lawyer, Sammy, shakes his head and blows out his breath all at once. He looks, and sounds, frustrated. “I sure hope you’re going to lose the attitude when we go to court.”

Dean settles into the metal chair, careful not to bump his ribcage against the back of it. “I’m flattered that you can’t seem to leave me alone, Sammy, but why do you keep coming back here?”

The lawyer narrows his eyes, a red flush creeping up the side of his neck. “Because we need to start working on your defense? That is, if you even want one.”

“I don’t know how to get it through your thick skull, Sammy, but there’s nothing you can do for me. Yeah, I killed the bastard.” Dean stares placidly at the man seated across from him. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

Sammy shakes his head. “Drop the tough guy act. You’re not some cold-blooded killer, no matter what you try to pretend to be.”

“I ain’t pretending shit. The bastard had it coming, and I enjoyed it.” Dean smiles at Sammy’s involuntary flinch. “Yeah, that’s right. I fucking enjoyed bashing his head in with that poker, but the goddamned bastard wouldn’t die, so I choked the life right out of him. I felt his last breath on my hands, and it felt good. And then I stabbed him about twenty times with the poker, just because I wanted to do it. How are you going to defend that, Sammy boy?”

The lawyer stares at the wall for a long, hard minute, and Dean can almost see the wheels in the man’s head turning. “Why did you enjoy it?”

Those aren’t the words that Dean’s expecting, and he’s caught off guard for a moment. “What do you mean?”

Sammy turns those brown eyes to study his face, and Dean squirms a little in his chair. There’s some inscrutable emotion there, something that feels too much like pity, and it makes him uncomfortable. “You said that he deserved it. Fine. Tell me why. What did he do to deserve it? What did he do to you?”

“I could take anything he dished out,” Dean snaps, biting out the words.

“Fine, then. Not to you.” Sammy steeples his hands and gazes at him with those damned puppy-dog eyes. “But he did something to someone, didn’t he? Something that went too far, and it broke you.”

The damned lawyer is getting too close to the truth for Dean’s liking. “The only thing busted in me is a few ribs.” 

Sammy’s eyes are so soft and gentle that it almost makes Dean feel sick to his stomach. He’s not used to such emotional displays, especially in regards to himself. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this, eventually,” the lawyer promises.

“Yeah, well, don’t hold your breath.” Dean signals the guards standing by the door, and they quickly file into the room to usher him back to his cage.

“Have a good visit with your scumbag lawyer?” one of them asks as soon as the door to the legal visiting room swings shut, and Dean feels a wild urge to defend Sammy, even though it’s obviously just them trying to bait him into a fight. 

But they don’t steer him towards the solitary wing. Instead, they drag him to the general population wing, a place where Dean is definitely not supposed to be, and shove him into one of the shower rooms. Dean barely has the time to realize that there are four guys waiting for him there, naked except for towels wrapped around them and predatory smiles donning their faces, before the door clicks shut, the lock sliding into place as the guards cackle to themselves outside.

_Shit._


	11. xi.

**xi.**

Sam has a raging headache, which he blames in no small measure on his client. Going into the prison to talk to him is like banging his head on a brick wall, repeatedly and forcefully, and Sam either needs a nap or a stiff drink. Perhaps both. 

He lies down as soon as he gets to his apartment, too tired and spent to even contemplate heading into the office. He’ll call Anna later, after he’s gotten some rest, and explain his absence.

But Sam can’t turn his thoughts off that easily, even though the headache is threatening to bloom into one of his full-fledged migraines. He keeps seeing the slave in his mind, telling him how he’d enjoyed killing his master, but refusing to tell Sam why. And that answer is the all-important one, the one that will determine if the slave might have a chance to escape the chair, but the prisoner seems determined to keep it from him – yet another unanswered question.

There sure are a lot of those in Sam’s life recently, and much like his increasingly common headaches, they all seem to revolve around his client.

His phone chirps near his ear, and Sam rolls over with a groan to answer it. “Hello?”

“Sam?” 

He tries to stifle another groan, but fails miserably. “Anna, hey, I’m sorry—”

She doesn’t let him finish his less-than-half-hearted apology. “Get back to the jail. Your client has had another—” a slight pause, as if she’s searching for the right word, “— _incident_.”

“Oh god, what did he do this time? Please tell me it doesn’t involve another guard.”

“Well, from what I hear, only fellow prisoners were involved in this go-round, but he did manage to bite off a piece of someone’s cheek.”

That’s definitely enough to wake Sam up, as well as push his headache into clear migraine territory. “Jesus. _Jesus_. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

\--------------------

It takes some cajoling, veiled threats, and pleading, but Sam somehow manages to convince the prison officials that he needs to see his client _now_. Instead of meeting the prisoner in the legal visiting room, however, Sam’s escorted back to his cell, where the slave is sitting on his bed, head bowed.

Sam doesn’t know what exactly he’s expecting, but he’s definitely not expecting his client to be so calm, especially after how keyed up he’d been after his last _incident_ , to use Anna’s word. But the prisoner just glances up at him and says, “Hey, Sammy. Nice of you to drop by.”

Sam shakes his head as the guard unlocks the door. “What in the hell happened?”

“Oh, you know, just making some new friends.” The door slides shut behind Sam, and the sound of the lock turning is ominous in the quiet of solitary. Funny, the man in front of him has killed at least one man, possibly caused another to be in a permanent vegetative state, and had reportedly torn off a piece of another man’s cheek with his own teeth a mere hour ago, and yet Sam doesn’t feel like he’s in any danger.

“Remind me to never become your friend.” That earns Sam a small smile. “Seriously, though. Talk to me.”

The prisoner eyes Sam warily, and Sam is struck by the fact that he still doesn’t know his client’s name. Legally, of course, the prisoner has no name – just a number. But surely someone, somewhere, had cared enough about the man to give him some sort of moniker. 

At least, Sam hopes that someone had, because the thought of anyone living a life completely devoid of love or care is one that he doesn’t even want to contemplate.

The prisoner shrugs, drawing Sam out of his musings. “You know, same old same old. I took out one of theirs, and they want to take out me now.” The slave bares his teeth a little, but it doesn’t resemble any kind of smile Sam has ever seen before. It’s almost a look of pain. “Didn’t think I could take out four guys at once, I guess. Not bad, considering I’m not at my best right now.” 

“Wait, guards attacked you?”

“Nah. They just set it up. Took me into one of the showers in gen-pop, even though I’m not allowed to be there. They had four guys waiting to jump me.” The prisoner’s eyes skitter across the floor, the walls, before zeroing in on Sam’s face, and, for the briefest moment, Sam can see a myriad of emotions swimming in his client’s eyes before the man’s face shuts down completely. “Those guys ain’t going to be jumping for a while, that’s for sure.”

“We need to get you out of here, transferred to some other jail until your trial. I’ll see what I can do to get an emergency session in front of a judge. You aren’t safe here.”

The prisoner’s eyes are bleak. “You don’t get it, Sammy. I’m not safe anywhere.”


	12. xii.

**xii.**

Two days later, Sam stands in a judge’s chambers alongside an annoyed-looking ADA and the union representative for the guards at the jail.  He can’t believe his luck; out of all the possible magistrates, Sam has somehow landed Judge Reynolds, who had been a prominent civil rights lawyer in the 1960s before moving to the bench.  If anyone is willing to actually listen to his plea, it should be Judge Reynolds. 

Sparing a brief glance at the ADA as the judge enters the room, it looks like Sam isn’t the only one in the room who can’t believe his luck.

“All right, let’s get this show on the road,” the judge rumbles, leafing through a few sheets of paper on his desk.  “Basically, you think your client is in danger in his present location, and you want to argue that he’s not.”

“Your honor, this whole motion is—”  The ADA begins, but the judge cuts her off with a withering glare. 

“I don’t recall saying that I wanted to hear your argument just yet, Counselor.”  Judge Reynolds turns to look at Sam, and Sam swallows hard against the lump rapidly forming in his throat.  “Your client seems to be a problem child, Counselor.”

_Understatement of the year_ , Sam thought to himself.  “Your Honor, my client is prepared to face the charges against him, but it is difficult to prepare his defense when he’s so concerned about his personal safety.  He was taken, against all protocol, to a general population showering room, even though it was clearly not the time of day for showers, and even though my client is clearly assigned to the solitary confinement unit.”  The union representative raises his hand, but the judge shakes his head and gestures for Sam to continue.  “I believe this was in direct retaliation for a recent attack against a guard, allegedly committed by my client.  My client also states that he has several broken ribs, but he has yet to be taken to the infirmary for x-rays or treatment.”

“He has the ‘alleged’ broken ribs from the ‘alleged’ attack on the guard,” the ADA mutters darkly, just loudly enough for Sam to hear the words.

“And what’s your reply?”  The judge folds his hands neatly in front of him.

“Your Honor, Counselor Winchester’s client is in jail awaiting trial for allegedly murdering his own master.  He’s been in jail for only a few weeks, but he has already allegedly attacked a guard without provocation, and now he has allegedly attacked four other prisoners in the showering room, also without provocation.  If anyone’s threatening the safety of Counselor Winchester’s client, is the client himself.”

“Your Honor,” Sam protests, “my client strenuously maintains that he was only defending himself in both alleged attacks that have occurred since entering the jail.  The most recent altercation with the four prisoners should have never happened, as my client should have never been there in the first place.”

The judge nods to the union representative.  “What time are showers at the jail?”

“It depends on the prisoner’s security level, sir.”

“Do any inmates take showers at—”  He glances down at one of the papers on his desk.  “—11:37 am?”

The union representative pauses for a moment and looks away.  “No, sir.”

“Do you have any reasonable explanation as to why the guards took a segregated inmate into a general population showering room at a time when no inmates were scheduled for showers, even though four men were in the room at the time Counselor Winchester’s client entered the showering area?”

The man swallows hard before shaking his head.  “No, sir.”

“Very well.  I move that Counselor Winchester’s client, Prisoner 7432970-S, is to be expediently transferred from the county jail to the city jail to await his trial, where his reported injuries will also be examined by a physician.  Adjourned.”

\--------------------

Sam visits his client in his new cell the next day.  “How’s it going?”

The prisoner glances at him.  “Jail’s still jail, Sammy.”  But then he relaxes a bit, and Sam’s struck by how young he can appear when he sheds his perpetual guarded look, even with the prematurely graying hair.  “Doc wrapped up my ribs and told me to stop trying to prove to everyone that I’m such a badass.” 

Sam tries to go for a stern look, but the corners of his mouth twitch in a barely-repressed smile.  “Yeah, it might help if you spent less time trying to prove your badassery and more time helping me with your case.”

“Don’t know what you want me to say, Sammy.  I told you I did it and that I’d do it again.  How much simpler can it be?”  The prisoner narrows his eyes.  “Wait, you aren’t trying to get me a reduced sentence or some other stupid shit, are you?”

“I’m trying to get you acquitted.”

“Acquitted?”  The prisoner laughs, a short, humorless bark.  “Yeah, that ain’t going to happen, Sammy.  What have you been smoking?  Jesus.  _Acquitted_.” 

His client’s derision stings a little, Sam has to admit to himself.  “What do you want me to do?  I’m your lawyer.  I have to do _something_ for you.”

“What do I want you to do?”  The prisoner stares straight into Sam’s eyes.  “I want you to do your little job, go to court, put on the monkey suit and tie, and tell the judge that I plead guilty and that yes, the electric chair will be just fine.  You think I want to stay here?  That I want to live the rest of my life in a cage, Sammy?  Would you?”

“No, but – I’m sure that there are extenuating circumstances.  If you’d just talk to me—”

“I’m talking to you now, and I’m telling you what I want.  You think they’re going to let some sub-human piece of shit like me do anything but fry?  Really?”

Sam doesn’t know what to say.


	13. xiii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of an information dump about what being fae actually entails.

**xiii.**

Sam stares at the open notebook in front of him, empty except for “slavery” and “acquittal” scrawled in big block letters, with a wavy arrow connecting them and a big question mark in the margin. 

This is like a law school assignment from hell.

No, this is _worse_ than a law school assignment from hell, because at least most of his professors believed in the idea of partial credit.  But there won’t be any partial credit here; Sam is either going to pull this out of his ass, or he’s going to send his client to the electric chair, and soon.  The jury selection starts next week, and the trial will shortly follow.

It’s not as if he hasn’t tried; he _has_ tried, and hard, more than most public defenders probably would have in his situation.  But having a client who refuses to aid in his own defense – that’s something new for Sam, and nothing he’s done has changed the prisoner’s mind.  Not the pleading, not the scolding, not the downright begging – nothing seems to sway Sam’s client in the slightest.

He sighs and pours himself another shot of whiskey.  Sam isn’t much of a drinker, but this case is driving him to either insanity or alcoholism.  Maybe both.

He has an interview lined up tomorrow, with the victim’s widow; it probably won’t help his case, might even hurt it a little – although, honestly, things can’t get much worse, the way they’re going now – but he’ll take what he can get.  Sam’s surprised that the widow agreed to speak with him at all; it had taken her almost two weeks to respond after Sam contacted her lawyer, and she had seemed rather hesitant on the phone. 

Still, any victory is worth celebrating, no matter how small, right?  He pours himself another drink.

Sam taps the pencil against his cheek, his eyes bleary from lack of sleep and stress and god knows how many shots of whiskey. 

_“You think they’re going to let some sub-human piece of shit like me do anything but fry?”_

Sam writes, in very small letters, “sub-human” beside “slavery” in the notebook, pauses, and then adds “/fae.”  He circles his new additions a few times, underlines them, and tries to puzzle them out, like a math riddle with no rational answer.

And that, really, is the problem – there is nothing rational about this case – or society.

Everyone knows the story: once, generations ago, right after the end of the Civil War, someone had found a fairy – hurt, powerless, and very, very lost.  And in the societal upheaval created after the theoretical end of slavery in the United States, someone had had an idea.  And so, his client’s great-great-great-to-whatever-power-grandmother had become the first post-Civil War slave, and the legacy continues to this day.

The irony, of course, is that the prisoner probably only has a drop of fae blood in him, if that, some infinitesimal fraction that would require a lot of long division to arrive at any sort of percentage; as far as Sam knows, there has only ever been the one full-blooded fairy.  The prisoner looks like everyone else; nothing marks him as otherworldly.

“Unless you count his eyes,” Sam mutters, amending his internal dialogue. 

“Wait, where did that come from?”  He raises his eyebrows, or at least tries to; it’s hard to feel his face right now.  “And since when do I talk to myself?”

He shakes his head, trying to clear it, but only succeeds in making himself a little dizzy and nauseous.  “Need to lay off this shit,” he slurs, even as he pours himself another shot.  He jerks one shoulder to the side and smiles; it’s a good thing he’s alone, because he probably looks like a lunatic right now.  “Might as well go for broke.”

Sam picks up the pencil again and sketches a small teardrop onto the paper, shading it in, and scratches “one drop” beside it. 

And because of that drop, because of that small whiff of non-humanness, the civil rights movement had passed his client and his kin by.  The Constitution, after all, says “We the people,” not “We the people and fae hybrids.”  And the court rulings have backed that up, even when laws haven’t been specific; the fae descendants, for all intents and purposes, live outside of all legal protections to this day.  The amendments barring slavery don’t apply to anyone of fae lineage.

Sam draws a few shapeless squiggles beside “acquittal.”  Society has tried to portray itself as liberal, allowing fae accused of murder a show trial, and doesn’t even segregate the accused in jail from the “regular humans.”  But few can deny that the fae are treated differently, railroaded into guilty pleas or bench trials and trucked off to the electric chair before society as a whole can hear the horrors of slavery.

Sam hopes the tide is changing.  There are abolitionist groups, small but vocal, and a few states have passed laws regarding how the fae must be treated.  Some have even weighed the idea of barring fae slavery altogether.

Their state, of course, has not done any of those things.

But that’s not what Sam is aiming for right now.  All he wants is to save his client’s life.  The rest can come later.  Hopefully. 

He just has a few days to figure out how to do that, and with no help from his client.


	14. xiv.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TRIGGER WARNING FOR RAPE**

**xiv.**

Dean’s hackles are perpetually raised here; everywhere he goes, he can feel eyes trailing him.  Soon, there’s going to come a time where he’s going to have to either prove that it’s a really bad idea to try to fuck with him or be permanently marked as prey; he can feel it in his gut, and his gut hasn’t lied to him yet. 

He tries to keep to himself as much as possible, making no friends and no enemies.  The first rule of jail is to be beholden to no one; accept a favor or kindness, even a piece of gum, and you might as well get “property of ___” tattooed on you.  Dean already has one of those tattoos permanently gracing his ass, thanks to Master James, and he has absolutely no desire for a matching set.

It’s hard as hell to keep yourself sharp here; the prison is overcrowded and understaffed, and there’s a potential threat around every corner, behind every accidental meeting of the eyes.  He can’t sleep more than an hour or so at a time; every unexpected creak, every shift of weight on a mattress, every snore or sleepy mumble, sets his teeth on edge, sends him into full alert.

He can’t keep living like this, and yet there’s no other way to exist here.  Eventually, he’s going to fall down; Dean just hopes that no one is there to take advantage of it.

\--------------------

Dean loves the jail’s library.  It’s small and cramped and smells kind of moldy, but it’s filled with books of every shape and size.  He likes to sit down at one of the scarred wooden tables, a stack of books in front of him, and flip through the pages.  He knows that they’re probably just legal texts, presumably to help the prisoners gear up for their trials, but it doesn’t matter to Dean; it’s not like he can read.  He just enjoys looking at the words, to imagine what the indecipherable jumble of letters and numbers mean.

The librarian is kind to him; inmates are only allowed an hour in the library at a time, but she lets him sit as long as he wants in front of the books.  But she’s only at the jail a few afternoons a week; budget cuts have hit the system hard, and a prisoner mans the library desk for the rest of the week.  Once in a while a guard checks in, but not very often; the library, for the most part, is a designated neutral zone.

He’s in the back of the stacks one afternoon, searching for his favorite book, the one with the red cloth binding and a gold symbol imprinted on its front cover.  The first few pages are black-and-white illustrations of old court houses, and Dean likes to stare at them, pretending that he is there instead of here, free to sit on the front steps and watch the world pass by him.  It’s a good way to spend a few hours.

The air conditioning has given out again today; the little library room is almost suffocating, but Dean doesn’t care.  It just means that he’ll have the library mostly to himself, more time to sift through the pages of his books. 

The door opens, swirls the stifling air a bit before swinging closed again.  Dean peers around the shelves, cursing under his breath as he sees who has joined him in the nearly-empty library.  It’s Saul, a known shot caller in one of the gangs, and two of his boys.  Being alone around them is only tempting fate, and Dean sets the book down with regret before edging towards the exit. 

“Hey, don’t let us run you off, fairy boy,” one of the men calls after him, laughing.  Dean keeps his face straight, marches towards the door with purpose in his eyes, and breathes a half-sigh of relief once he’s in the hallway. 

The stairwell to the cell block is dark and deserted; it only leads to the library and some storage areas.  The warden keeps talking about how it’s a safety hazard and it needs to be barricaded shut, but no one has gotten around to that yet.

Dean’s hand is pulling the door to the cell block open when someone reaches from behind him, slams his head into the door, and drags him down into the darkness.

\--------------------

He’s dizzy from the impact, but Dean comes up fighting, lashing out with his fists at his unknown attacker.  He trips over an extended foot, tumbles down some stairs, crumples into a heap on one of the landings, but as someone yanks him up by his uniform collar, Dean swings at eye level, his hand coming into contact with what feels like a nose.

The man lets out a huff of air with a groan, and someone else grabs Dean from behind and shoves him against the brick wall.  More than one, then.  Saul and his guys?  Impossible to know at the moment, and it doesn’t matter.  Dean tries to knee the guy in the groin, but misses, coming in contact instead with the man’s leg.  The guy takes a fist full of Dean’s shirt and bashes the back of his head against the wall three, four times. 

“A lot of fight for such a pretty little boy,” the man murmurs as Dean slumps to the floor, his ears ringing.  A few men laugh in the background, the sound hazy and indistinct – at least three then, probably more.  Dean pauses, waits, lets them think that the fight has been beaten out of him.  Hardly.

He gets his chance when the one who had been pinning him to the wall takes a step backwards, and Dean balls his hand into a fist and aims for the guy’s crotch.  This time he strikes pay dirt, judging from the man’s howl of pain, and Dean bares his teeth in a feral grin before staggering to his feet.  Someone shoves him from behind, and Dean’s stomach comes into hard contact with the railing’s blunt edge.  All of the air is knocked out of him, and he feels a searing pain in his left side, worse than the broken ribs, worse than anything in his recent memory.

He gropes under his shirt, thinking that he’s been stabbed, but his hands aren’t slick with blood when he withdraws them.  But something’s clearly wrong; his side is killing him, and his head is swimming so much that he can’t get his bearings.  He falters, drops to one knee, tries to get up, but that’s all the time it takes for someone else to grab him. 

Dean’s flung head-first down the next half-flight of stairs, and he tries to roll into a defensive position, but he can’t quite manage it in time.  His shoulder strikes the brick wall hard, and he tries to claw his way up, but there are thundering footsteps above him, and then there are feet stomping him into the floor.  He curls into a ball, but he’s pulled out of the corner, and those feet find their way to his still-healing broken ribs, to the new ache in his left side.

His vision is hazy; he can’t make out shapes, just blurs and flashes of light, and he feels far, far away from his body.  Dean tries to swipe at his attackers’ legs, tries to upset their balance, but his own sense of balance is so messed up that he just swings and misses, leaving himself open to more punishing blows.

The fight is seeping out of him, and quickly.  He pats his tender left side again, still can’t feel the tell-tale slickness of blood there, but it’s like he’s bleeding out here on the floor.  He feels sick, unsure of how he got here, what’s happening to him.

But then he feels hands grabbing at his pants, yanking them off his body, turning him over, pressing his face down into the cold concrete of the stairs, and he knows.  He’s been here before, hundreds of times, maybe thousands, and it ignites some dying ember of fight in him.  His knees scrabble against the floor, trying to get away, but there are too many of them, and he has nowhere to go.

One of the men traces the curve of his ass with a rough hand, lets out a low whistle.  “Thank you god for this feast set before me,” he whispers nastily, and the others laugh. 

“Looks like someone else has been here before us,” another says, slapping Dean’s ass with a resounding thwack.  The tattoo.  “Property of Master James.”

The first man cackles.  “I’m sure good ol’ Master James won’t mind us getting a sample of his boy here.” 

And then there is quiet, except for the expectant breath of the men above him, the sound of a pocket being rifled through, the squirt of lotion or baby oil or something else.  Dean tries to move, tries to get away from what he knows is coming, but someone twists his arms behind him, pinning him to the ground, and someone else is spreading Dean wide for the impending attack.

Something cold and hard is pressed up against him, and Dean can’t keep the whimper from escaping his throat.  He’d promised himself, promised once Master James was dead that he would never let another man do this to him, and yet here he is, powerless once more to stop it.  The man grips his hips tight, thrusts against him hard, and Dean, mercifully, blacks out as he feels his flesh trying to give, then tearing.

\--------------------

He drifts in and out of consciousness, his body feeling strange and disjointed, his left side on fire though the rest of him is cold, so cold, even with the men’s hot breath on his body.  At some point, they flip Dean over onto his back, someone holding his legs firmly in the air so the guy on top of him can fuck him harder.  His mind whipsaws back and forth, and he’s in the past, and then the present, and then the past again.  It’s Master Michael fucking him, and then Master James, and then some unknown guys on the stairs in a jail, and then Master James again. 

Dean hates the sounds most of all, always has.  The men quietly egging each other on, urging the current one to rip him open; the panting, the muffled groans and grunts signifying that another man will soon be taking the current one’s place; the sounds that his own body makes, the sickening mixture of come and lube dripping down his ass onto the floor; the skin-on-skin contact echoing in the hallway.

The door leading to the cell block opens briefly, a few flights above them; everyone freezes in place, and Dean tries to struggle into his body, to force himself to make some noise, any.  But a hand is slapped against his mouth, grinding against his teeth; another rests on his balls, squeezing hard, the threat unmistakably clear, and the opportunity passes when the door slams shut. 

He thinks he passes out again; either that, or his mind flutters away, like it did so many times when Master James was on top of him. 

\--------------------

Dean comes to later, alone at the bottom of the stairwell now, shivering from the cold.  He clutches at his side again; it’s tight and excruciatingly painful, and even in his daze, he figures that he’s bleeding internally.  Dean ponders trying to crawl up the two flights of stairs.  It doesn’t seem worth the effort.  Whether he dies here or dies in the electric chair in a few months, it doesn’t really matter.  He'll be dead either way, and all of this will be over.

He closes his eyes and lets himself drift away into oblivion.

 


	15. xv.

**xv.**

The call from the jail isn’t really unexpected; his client had been saying for weeks that he isn’t safe behind bars.  But to see him in the hospital bed, his skin waxy and covered in bruises…well, that really drives home the point for Sam.  The prisoner’s a built guy – broad shoulders, muscular arms – but he looks so small in the hospital bed with the machines hooked up to him, pumping life into his battered body. 

The guard watching over the prisoner side-eyes Sam for a second, then jerks his head towards the bed.  “He’s probably going to be out for a while.  He was getting restless, so the nurse gave him some of the good stuff.”

“Okay.  Thanks.”  Sam brushes his hair back from his eyes, wondering what he should do.  He needs to call the widow Fitzhugh, whom he is supposed to interview in exactly thirty-nine minutes, and ask her if he can reschedule their meeting.  And then he needs to contact Anna, let her know what happened, and then file an emergency delay of proceedings.  No court in the world could argue that his client is able to prepare for his defense like this.

But then he thinks of the prisoner, hurt and alone in a strange place.  Sam wouldn’t want to wake up like that; he’d want a familiar face beside him, even if it was just his lawyer sitting by his bedside.

He heaves a sigh and pulls up the room’s lone chair beside the prisoner’s bed.  Sam can do some of his work here, and if he asks nicely, Anna will probably help him out with the rest.

The guard clears his throat and mumbles something about being in the hallway if Sam needs him.  It’s an unexpected kindness, giving Sam some time alone with his client, even though it’s obvious that there’s not going to be any type of conversation going between them. 

“Hey,” Sam murmurs, leaning over the side rail so he can better see the prisoner’s face.  The normally harsh lines that frame the man’s mouth are softened in sleep, and Sam is taken aback by how young his client looks at this moment.  “I don’t know if you can hear me, but just in case you can, I wanted to let you know that I’m here, okay?”

There’s no response, but Sam isn’t expecting one, anyway.

The prisoner’s right hand is resting against his chest, his index finger hooked up to some sort of monitor.  Sam hesitates for a minute before taking it in his own – the prisoner has always seemed a bit leery of physical contact, but surely he wouldn’t object to a little comfort, and Sam just needs to reassure himself that the guy’s okay – and he squeezes the prisoner’s fingers lightly, careful not to dislodge the monitor. 

“They didn’t call me until this morning.  They said that you had some sort of surgery last night.  If I’d known, I would have been there.  I know you’re an epic badass and you don’t need me or anyone else, but…”  Sam pauses to swallow against the lump that is, for some reason, rising in his throat.  “Well, I don’t know.  Maybe even epic badasses need someone to tell them that it’s going to be all right once in a while.”   

The room is still silent except for his client’s faint breaths.

“So, I’m going to grab some coffee and something to eat, okay?  But I’ll be right back.  I promise.”  He gives the prisoner’s hand one last squeeze before leaving the room. 

\--------------------

When Sam returns to the prisoner’s room, extra-large coffee and stale doughnut in hand, a nurse is in standing by the bed, scribbling notes in a thick three-ring binder. 

“Hi.  I’m Sam Winchester, his lawyer.” 

“Emily, his nurse.”  She doesn’t look up from the chart during the brief introductions; she just keeps writing whatever it is that she’s writing.  She pauses for a moment, glances at the prisoner, and Sam would swear that her eyes soften a little as she gazes at his client.  It’s a bit strange, seeing someone having open compassion for a slave; most people seem content to dismiss them as sub-humans unworthy of notice.

“He’ll be out for a while, probably the rest of the afternoon at least.”  The nurse approaches the bed, examines one of the monitors, and scratches something else in the chart. 

“Emily?  I haven’t been told much about what happened to my client.  I was wondering if you could help me fill in the blanks.” 

She looks down at the chart, looks at Sam, and then looks at the chart once more.  “I can’t really say anything because of HIPAA.  I could lose my job.”

“Of course, of course.  I don’t want to get you in trouble.”  Sam takes a sip from his coffee, winces at the bitter taste. 

“Do all lawyers make housecalls when their clients are in the hospital?”  It sounds like a joke, but Emily’s face is devoid of any humor.   

“Probably not.”  Sam approaches the side of the bed again.  “You ever get patients who just get under your skin, and you don’t really know why?  This guy is like that.  He doesn’t really want my help, bullheaded as they come, but damned if I don’t want to help him anyway.”

“I can’t really say anything because of HIPAA,” Emily repeats after a moment of silence, shutting the chart and placing it in a wire holder on the wall.  “And I can’t show you his chart, because it contains information like a history and physical, which explains what the doctors treated and why.”  She taps the spine of the binder with one finger for emphasis.  “I have to make my rounds.  If he seems to be in pain, or if you need something, just push the red call button on the siderail.”

Well, she had made that rather obvious.

Sam waits for a few minutes, his conscience warring with his need to know.  He’s violating his client’s privacy if he opens that chart, and the prisoner clearly values his privacy a great deal.  Hell, Sam doesn’t even know the man’s name yet.  But, from a legal standpoint, he really does need to know about what happened; along with the delay of proceedings, he’s planning on filing for a transfer to protective custody, and knowing a few details about what exactly occurred in the jail will be helpful in gaining it.  And if the guards are responsible for this in some twisted act of revenge, Sam is going to personally see to it that every single one of them pays with their jobs.

He frowns and flips open the binder.

There are several tabs dividing the papers inside the chart, with a yellow one towards the middle marked “H&P.”  Sam folds back the tab and begins to read.

“Young fae male, well-nourished, approximately age 30, reports to the Emergency Department unconscious.  He is an inmate in the city jail – the guards accompanying him state that they found him unconscious in a stairwell less than an hour prior.  He was taken to the jail’s infirmary, where his condition was pronounced critical, requiring emergency care.”

Sam skims over the next few paragraphs, his mind storing for later use phrases like “rapid pulse with low blood pressure,” “tight, bruised LUQ highly suggestive of internal trauma and bleeding, likely ruptured spleen,” “on-call general surgeon paged, OR to be prepped ASAP for splenectomy.”

And then his heart falters, skips a beat, as he scans the last paragraph on the page. 

“The patient has two acute-appearing bleeding anal fissures, the larger measuring nearly a centimeter in length.  Upon further examination, the patient has numerous partially-healed fissures and scars to the anus and rectum, likely indicative of sustained trauma to this area over a period of months, if not years.  Fresh semen was found inside the patient’s rectum; quantity suggests multiple assailants.  A rape kit was ordered by myself and performed by Examiner Jennifer Flores; the evidence was stored and the proper prison officials will be notified once this critical patient has been transferred into the surgeon’s care.”

Sam closes the binder and places it back in its holder on the wall with trembling fingers.  So his client wasn’t just attacked and beaten yesterday; he was _raped_. 

He draws in a shaky breath before making his way back to his client’s side, grasping the man’s hand once more.  He recalls all of the veiled hints, the unspoken ways that the prisoner had communicated in bits and pieces his past to Sam.  The way he’d reacted after beating up that guard, how a simple touch had nearly made him come unglued.  The undisguised pain in his eyes after Sam had made a remark about keeping the guards off his ass.  The ferocity of his attack against the four men who had been waiting for him in that shower.  Killing his master without remorse, all the while saying that he could take anything the man had dished at him.  It’s all there; maybe not in so many words, but it’s there, and Sam can see it clear as day now.

This isn’t the first time his client has been raped; in all likelihood, the prisoner has been raped more times than Sam wants to think about.  And now, to have it happen again, to be beaten so badly that he nearly died in the process…

“I’m going to get you out of there,” Sam whispers, so softly that he can barely hear the words himself.  “I’m going to get you out of there, no matter what I have to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So someone asked why Dean would have any HIPAA (including, but not limited to, privacy) rights when he's a slave. The short answer is: he doesn't, but his owner does. Long explanation below, along with very mild spoilers. ;)
> 
> I deal with this issue more in later chapters, but most (actually, nearly ALL) fae are kept as sex slaves. I also talk about, later, how fae are more resistant to most diseases (just a genetic quirk). So when a fae is brought to the hospital, chances are the reason is a sex-related injury. And you can probably imagine what it would be like if the details of some of those injuries became public knowledge. And since this story takes place in Kansas, which is a pretty damned conservative state, you can also imagine why owners of fae slaves would be very interested in keeping said details quiet, especially when it comes to male fae slaves. There's a reason why Dean is kept locked away in an attic away from everyone else and Lisa isn't (this is mentioned in later chapters), even though Lisa has given birth to a child fathered by her owner and that is clear evidence that she, too, is being sexually abused by her owner. Homophobia is a big deal in this world, too, unfortunately.
> 
> So when a fae slave receives medical treatment, for whatever reason, s/he falls under her/his owner's HIPAA rights. Obviously, the slave's medical conditions and prognosis are NOT kept secret from her/his owner, but they are kept secret from anyone else. And since Dean is now Veronica Fitzhugh's property, only she is privy to why, exactly, he is in the hospital and the details surrounding the incident. That is why Sam can't just request to know what happened; he doesn't have her permission. Obviously, the nurse took pity on him. ;)
> 
> Sam has only been a lawyer for a few years, and he's never had to deal with a case that involves a fae before, which is why he is surprised by what had happened to Dean in Fitzhugh's "care." Fae slavery is rarely discussed in public; it's one of those things that society is content to turn a blind eye to and just ignore. A lot of people, I believe, which will be discussed in a later chapter, really don't know what is going on - or they don't _want_ to know.
> 
> Also to note: If Dean was able to identify his attackers, they would _not_ be charged with rape. Instead, as Dean is viewed as property and is not a free fae, it would be up to his owner, Veronica Fitzhugh, to sue Dean's rapists for damaging her property, likely in a civil court. Yeah, this world is kind of fucked up. Free fae are afforded a little more legal protection (also discussed in future chapters), but not a lot.


	16. xvi.

**xvi.**

It’s been a long time since Dean has had a nightmare about Master Michael – Master James and his notorious “parties” usually figure more prominently in his bad dreams – and yet his six-year-old dream self is standing in Master Michael’s study once more.

He knows it’s a nightmare; that’s how they tend to work, at least for Dean.  They’re always the same, living the past down to the last detail, without chance of altering its course.  And that makes it worse, because Dean knows exactly what’s coming, and he can’t stop it.  He can’t tell his six-year-old self to turn around and run, no matter how much he wants to; all he can do is stand and watch, a mute witness to what must unfold, again and again and again.

Master Michael is sitting in his favorite chair, waiting for his latest acquisition, his newest toy.  And little Dean – he is small for his age, barely forty pounds – is shuffling towards his new Master, unaware of what is going to happen to him.  All he knows is that he wants his mother, but the man at the auction house told him that he belongs to Master Michael now, and he must be a good boy and do as Master says. 

Master Michael smiles at the boy, that predatory leer that adult Dean knows so well, but little Dean doesn’t recognize it, at least not yet.  He’s still innocent of what can happen, what too often happens, to a young boy sold to a man.  Little Dean smiles back.  He was such a happy little kid once, friendly and trusting; his mother used to say that his smile was like sunshine.

That’s all going to end in just a few minutes.

“You’re such a handsome little fellow,” Master Michael croons, his voice sickly sweet.  “Come closer so I can get a good look at you, boy.”

_Wake up._

_Wake up._

_Wake up wake up wake up wake up._

But he can’t; he almost never can in time.  It’s like his mind is determined that he relive this, all of this, every moment.

“So pretty.  So young.”  Master Michael’s finger strokes little Dean’s cheek.  “So soft.”  And then Master’s hands are sliding little Dean’s pants down, and his six-year-old self is confused, but still so trusting, still so naïve.  “Come sit on my lap, my pretty little boy.”

And little Dean does.  He likes sitting on his mother’s lap, because that usually means hugs and stories whispered against his ear.  He has no reason, yet, to think that anything bad is going to happen to him.

Then there is pain, so much pain, too much for one child to bear, and adult Dean can feel every bit of it, even though it is little Dean who is screaming for his mother, begging her to come and help him, to make the bad man stop hurting him.

But she doesn’t come, and the pain doesn’t stop, because he isn’t her little boy anymore.  He belongs to Master Michael now.

\--------------------

He wakes up finally, too late, drenched in sweat.  It takes Dean a moment to remember where he is and why he’s there, but then the memories filter back to him.  His side is on fire, and Dean pushes aside the worn cotton of his hospital gown, feeling the long row of raised stitches that arc across his abdomen.  Another scar to add to his collection.

There’s a weird snuffling sound on his right, followed by a loud grumble, and Dean whips his head towards the unexpected noise, instantly awake.  He can’t see; the clock beside him says it’s 2:17 AM, and the room is almost completely dark, save for the dull glow from the monitors.  He fumbles for the button that turns on the overhead light, his body instinctively readying itself for a fight, even though he gasps from pain. 

Dean finally finds the button and mashes it with his thumb, narrowing his eyes in the sudden brightness.

“Just a few more minutes,” the unknown someone mumbles, his voice muffled and sleepy.  “I don’t wanna get up yet.”

Not exactly someone spoiling for a fight, from the sound of it.

As his eyes adjust to the light, Dean can make out a guy lying on a fold-out bed that is way too small for him; his bare feet, and most of his calves, are dangling over the edge.  He has an arm thrown over his face, but Dean recognizes that shaggy brown hair.

“Sammy?” 

The arm slides down, revealing the man’s eyes, squinting in the light.  “You’re awake.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”  Dean tries to roll onto his right side, but he clamps his hand on his newly-acquired wound with a soft moan.  “What in the hell are you doing here?”

A guard stumbles into the room, rubbing at his bleary eyes.  “What in the hell’s going on?”

“He just woke up.”  Sam sits up and swings his legs over the side of the fold-out bed, grimacing as his feet touch the floor.  “He’s a little confused.”

“Do I need to get the nurse?”  The guard eyes him, but not in a particularly menacing way.  He just looks annoyed that someone interrupted his sleep.  “You need more pain meds?”

“I’m fine,” Dean bites out, watching Sam exchange some wordless message with the guard. 

“Suit yourself.”  The guard shrugs before ducking behind the mauve curtain that serves as a door.

Sam pads over to Dean’s bedside, running his hand through his tangled hair.  The lawyer’s wearing a rumpled Stanford University t-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants, and it’s so weird for Dean to see him in something other than a cheap suit and tie.  He looks like some regular guy off the street, not some public defender who gets paid to hang around worthless pieces of shit all day.

“How are you feeling?”  Now that Sam is fully awake, he is totally working the sympathetic puppy-dog eyes routine. 

“Just peachy.”  Dean presses his knuckles into his side, kneading the upraised flesh.  Better to focus on the pain, because he has a bad feeling that Sammy’s going to want to talk about emotions or some other shit. 

“They had to take out your spleen.”  Sam rests his fingers against the siderail.  “And I’m here because I didn’t think you should be alone.”

“I can take care of myself.”  It’s utter bullshit, of course, even though Dean hates admitting it to himself.  _If you could really take care of yourself, you wouldn’t be here right now, would you?  You wouldn’t have let those guys…_  

Dean can’t complete the thought, even in his mind.  He digs his knuckles harder into his side, willing his mind to concentrate on that and nothing else, trying to fight the rising tide of shame that’s scalding his insides.

Sam doesn’t say a word, just gazes at him, and Dean realizes at that instant that Sam _knows_ , somehow, and that fact hurts more than anything else at this moment.  It’s like Sam can see Dean for what he really is, the disgusting and pathetic creature that he tries to keep hidden from everyone else, that he tries to pretend doesn’t exist. 

Dean closes his eyes tight, trying to regroup, and for a brief second he can feel the ghost of Master James’ mouth by his ear, his breath hot and damp against his skin, hissing – “You’re just two holes to fuck.  That’s all you’ll ever be.”

“Stop it,” Dean growls, but he doesn’t know who he’s talking to right now – himself or Master James or Sammy. 

“Hey, are you okay?”  Sammy touches his shoulder, just brushes his fingers against it really, but Dean can feel something inside of him break again, can almost hear the snap.

“Get the fuck off of me.”  And then the rage bubbles to the surface, takes over, and Dean is there but not there, still inside of his body but not in control of it.  “Don’t you fucking _touch_ me.”

“Okay, okay.”  Sam’s backing away from him, his hands raised in the air, and the guard rushes into the room and holds him down to the mattress.  Dean tries to buck him off, snapping his teeth at the guard’s hands, but Dean-but-not-Dean can’t break free.  A nurse hurries in, a syringe in her hand, and Dean can feel something flooding into his veins, something cold that smothers the hot anger there, and he can’t fight it.

\--------------------

His head is killing him, and the sun is in his eyes.

Dean tries to shade his face from the glare, but he can’t move his hands.  Confused, he looks down at his arms; it takes him a second to realize that he’s cuffed to the bed.  He tests one set of cuffs, then the other, but they hold him fast, the metal biting into his wrists.

“I tried to talk the guard out of it, but he insisted.”  Sammy’s sitting in a chair in the corner, about as far as he can get from Dean while still being in the same room with him, and Dean can see the wariness in his face.

Dean turns his head so he doesn’t have to look at the other man.  He feels like he’s royally fucked something up here, but he’s not quite sure what it is.  “I’m sorry,” Dean says after a while, staring up at the white ceiling tiles above the bed.  “I didn’t mean to…do that.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Dean can see Sammy stand up and edge a little closer to the bed, still keeping a good stretch of distance between them.  “Well, I shouldn’t have touched you.  I didn’t mean to…”  Sammy huffs out his breath.  “I guess I’m just a touchy kind of person, and that doesn’t seem to work out so well around you.”

“I don’t like to be touched.”  Dean thinks of the time before, back when he’d lived with his mother, and remembers how touchy she had been, too.  There had always been a hug or a kiss waiting for him, a soft pinch of his cheeks or a pat on his head, and little Dean had loved the contact.  In another life, he might still enjoy it.  But not here, not now.

“Yeah, I figured that out.”  A few more hesitant steps towards the bed.  “I mean, I can understand why—”

“Sammy, have you ever been held down and—”  Dean swallows hard, takes a deep breath, unable to finish the sentence.  He can see Sam shake his head, and he turns a little so he can watch him.  “Then don’t fucking tell me that you  _understand_ , because you can’t.”

“You’re right.”  Sammy sighs and approaches the siderail of the bed again, caution warring with compassion in his face.  “I can’t understand.  I don’t want to be able to understand, to be honest.”  His hand rakes through his hair, causing it to stick up on end.  “What I’m trying to say is, I don’t know, I want to be here for you.  If you want to talk about it, I’ll listen, okay?”

Dean snorts.  “You want to hear all the gory details?  Is that what gets your rocks off?”

“Jesus, man, will you stop it?”  Sammy begins to pace, twisting his shirt in his hands.  “I am trying my god damned best to be here for you, you know?  And maybe you don’t want it, and that’s fine, but…Jesus, I think you have to get some of this out or you’re just going to implode one day.  I have tried my hardest to be your friend, even though you keep pushing me away.  I don’t know even know your name, and you just tried to take off my face with your bare hands, but I’m still here.  I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me to go.  You tell me to fuck off, and I’ll walk out that door if that’s what you want, but I really think, deep down…”  He exhales loudly and closes his eyes.   “I’m sorry.  I just…look, I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have raised my voice.”

Sam settles back into the chair, folds his hands in his lap, and stares down at them for several minutes with a look of absolute concentration. 

Dean had never seen the lawyer get worked up about, well, anything, really.  He’s been goading him since the day they met, calling him Sammy to see if he could get a rise out of him, refusing to help with his own case.  And, in spite of everything, the kid just seems to hang around, to keep plugging away and not giving up on him.

Obviously, the guy is as fucked up as Dean is.

He could be snide right now, give some flippant response to Sammy’s little tirade.  He could even tell him to go take a long walk off a short pier, be rid of him for good.  But he doesn’t really want Sammy to go.  It’s bizarre to have someone who is kind to him, but…it’s sort of nice, too, in some strange way that Dean would never, ever admit to anyone. 

“Dean,” he says into the silence.

Sammy’s head jerks up.  “What?”

“My name.  It’s Dean.  Or, at least, that’s what my mother used to call me.”

A corner of Sammy’s mouth quirks up into a half-smile. 


	17. xvii.

**xvii.**

Sam had offered to meet the widow Fitzhugh at her lawyer’s office downtown, but she’d asked him to come to her home instead. The drive’s long, almost an hour, but beautiful, the congestion of the city soon giving way to scattered small towns and long stretches of farmland. But Sam can’t quite enjoy the view, not entirely; he can partially see it through Dean’s eyes, too, how isolated it feels, how the open flat land doesn’t provide much cover if you need to run or hide.

The thread of guilt that Sam’s been trying to keep at bay all morning flickers back to life once he pulls into the long gravel driveway that leads to the Fitzhugh home. He hadn’t told Dean what he’s doing today, and even though Sam knows that he has good reasons for doing so – the first being that Sam thinks this is going to be nothing but a colossal waste of his time, and the second being that Dean still seems intent on sabotaging any chance of a defense – he still feels more than a little uncomfortable about keeping it a secret.

The place is nice, a huge three-story farmhouse set on at least ten acres, with a big wrap-around porch and a newer-appearing four-car garage to the side. Sam steps out of the car and takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the evergreens that flank the house in orderly rows as he walks towards the front door. It feels so homey and inviting, at least from the outside; it’s almost impossible to believe than anything evil could take place here.

But, of course, Sam knows better.

The doorbell is answered by a young woman, maybe around Sam’s age, with dark hair and even darker eyes. “You must be Mr. Winchester,” she murmurs, opening the door wider so he can step inside, before Sam has a chance to introduce himself or state his business. “Mrs. Fitzhugh has been expecting you.”

She leads Sam through a large space with floor-to-ceiling windows and a red brick fireplace, towards the back of the house. Sam wants to let out a low whistle as he passes by open doors leading to various rooms; with the small fortune of antiques decorating them, there’s no doubt that the widow Fitzhugh is very well off financially.

The girl knocks at a pair of closed wooden doors, pauses a second, and then swings them open, gesturing for Sam to step inside. Every available inch of wall space is lined with glass-doored cabinets filled with dolls, and Sam is taken aback for a moment as he scans the collection. _Creepy_ , he thinks, forcing himself to focus on the woman who is rising from an overstuffed flowered sofa to greet him.

“You must be Sam Winchester. I can call you Sam, can’t I?” The widow Fitzhugh takes his hand, clasping it to her body rather than shaking it, and Sam nods. She doesn’t look anything like how he pictured her in his mind; he’d expected her to be older, around her dead husband’s age of fifty, with a perpetual look of disdain lining her face. But she’s tiny, probably not even five feet tall, and young – maybe around thirty, if that – and…frail, painfully so, like Sam could break the bones in her hand without any effort at all.

“Thank you so much for meeting with me, Mrs. Fitzhugh.”

“Oh, please, call me Veronica.” Still holding his hand, she leads him to the matching chair across from the sofa. She smiles as she sits down, but it looks strangely out of place on her features, more like it belongs on one of her dolls’ painted faces than her own.

“Lisa, will you be a dear and bring us some tea? Only three cups, please.” She smooths her skirt over her knees, then folds her hands primly in her lap. “You do like tea, don’t you Sam?”

“Sure. Thanks.” He really doesn’t, but he’ll choke it down if it helps with Dean’s case. Sam tries to keep his eyes trained on the widow’s face, but they slide over her shoulder to glance at the hundreds of creepy dolls staring at them. They’re all arranged and angled to face towards the small sitting area, like Sam is on some stage and they’re the silent audience, watching every move he makes. “When will your lawyer be joining us?”

“Oh, I don’t believe she’s coming. She seems to think that it is against my best interests to have you here. She means, of course, that it’s against _my husband’s_ best interests to have you here.” Mrs. Fitzhugh replies softly, her lips still twisted into that weird little smile that doesn’t quite look right.

“Your lawyer probably doesn’t want me talking to you without her present.” Sam’s cautious; he can’t risk gathering useful information today only to have it thrown out of court later because of not following protocol.

“I’m quite sure she doesn’t. She handled my husband’s business for years and was paid well for it. Her interests don’t align with mine, I’m afraid. She wants to protect the estate.” Something nameless flickers in the widow’s blue eyes for a moment. “I, on the other hand, care nothing for this place. I’ve entertained the idea of taking the angels, and of course my Lisa and her boy, and burning this house to the ground.”

“The…angels?” Sam peers at the hundreds of glass eyes trained on them. Somehow, calling them angels feels even more disturbing to him.

“I certainly can’t leave them behind, after they’ve looked over me for so long.” She rises from the couch and drifts towards one of the cases, her fingers trailing over the wood trim. “They listened to me. No one else would, not even my parents, but the angels…the angels were always here.”

The widow wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand; Sam can’t tell if she’s crying or not, and he isn’t sure if he’s supposed to say something or, like the creepy dolls that surround them, just listen. Thankfully, the indecision doesn’t last long; the door swings open and Lisa rejoins them, balancing a silver tray laden with a steaming kettle, a few teacups, and several plates of tiny, crustless sandwiches.

“Oh, Lisa.” The widow returns to the couch, and now that she’s closer, even in the dim light, Sam can see that her eyes are red-rimmed. “Lisa, I’m afraid that I can’t go to hell today, even without the devil in residence. I thought that I could, but…”

Lisa sets the tray down on the coffee table and presses a handkerchief into the widow’s outstretched hand. “It’s all right, Mrs. Fitzhugh. I can show Mr. Winchester everything that we’ve talked about.”

“Of course you can, dear. Of course you can.” The widow dabs at her eyes with the square of linen, sniffing delicately. “What in the world would I do without you? My brave Lisa.” Mrs. Fitzhugh shuffles towards the couch once more and sits down unsteadily. “And our poor Dean. He is the bravest of us all, and we must do everything to help him.”

Sam freezes, unable to string together an appropriate response. The fae are notorious for keeping their names secret, especially from their owners. Hell, it had taken Dean over a month of nearly daily meetings and a close shave to a mental breakdown before he’d offered his to Sam, and Sam is his lawyer, not owner. And yet here Mrs. Fitzhugh is, still legally Dean’s mistress, dropping his name like it’s nothing.

“Maybe I should take Mr. Winchester upstairs now, Mrs. Fitzhugh? We can have tea later, and like you said, we need to help Dean.” Lisa rests one hand on the widow’s shoulder, and after a pause, Mrs. Fitzhugh nods, pain etched in every line of her face.

“Yes. I suppose you’re right, Lisa.” The widow grasps the sleeve of Sam’s jacket as he stands up, her fingers twisting the fabric. “Sam. You must know that I begged the angels to help him. I never wanted anyone to be hurt. But the angels...they listen, but most of the time, that is all they do. And it wasn’t enough.”

It’s like she’s pleading with him to understand something, but Sam doesn’t know quite what it is, and he’s half-afraid to ask. Sam pats her hand before gently prying her fingers away. “It’s okay, Veronica. It’s okay.”

Lisa murmurs something into the widow’s ear, and it seems to calm her slightly. Sliding a knitted afghan around Mrs. Fitzhugh’s shoulders, Lisa motions for Sam to follow her towards the doors leading out of the room.

“I’m sorry about that.” Lisa sighs as she makes her way to a staircase. “Mrs. Fitzhugh is very…delicate.”

“Has she been…sick…long?” He trails behind the young woman, watches as she fishes out a ring of keys from her pocket as they approach the second story of the house.

“Ever since Master bought me, and that was eight years ago. Dean was here before me, and he told me a few times that she wasn’t always like that, that Master broke her mind.” She selects the correct key on the first try, unlocks the door, and forges ahead into the dim hallway.

“Wait. So you’re fae?”

Lisa comes to a stop, pivots around slowly to face him. “Yes,” she replies simply, “but I’m free. No one owns me now.”

Sam is dumbfounded. He’s heard of a few fae slaves who have been freed before – second class citizens with virtually no rights, but still, _free_ – but they’re extremely rare, maybe less than a few dozen of them total in all of the United States.

“Mrs. Fitzhugh freed me as soon as Master was dead.” She turns away from him, her dark eyes unreadable. “My son, too.” She takes a tentative step forward, then another, before pausing once more. “Will you tell Dean that for me the next time you see him? He needs to know.”

“Of course I will.”

Lisa nods abruptly. “Come on, we still have a little ways to go.”

At the end of the hallway, Lisa pushes aside a hanging tapestry, revealing another door. She fumbles with the ring of keys for a second, finally procuring the one she wants, and slides it into the deadbolt. The door is almost completely flat with the wall – no doorknob, just the slight rise of the deadbolt giving it away once the tapestry is concealing it – but opens easily with a little pressure from Lisa’s shoulder.

“I feel like I’m in some Gothic horror story,” Sam remarks as he climbs the carpeted stairs leading to yet another door, groping his way in the near-dark.

Lisa doesn’t respond, just sorts through the keys by touch, until her fingers land on the correct one. “We haven’t been up here since Master died and the police came,” she says at last, placing her palm against the wooden door. “I thought I should warn you.”

Sam is momentarily blinded by the sunlight streaming through the windows, and he leans against a wall to gain his bearings. His eyes finally focus on what looks like a former attic converted into a small study, its walls lined with framed prints. One bookcase is pushed into a corner, a television perched on top, its shelves oddly bare. He’s seen this room before, in the crime scene photos provided to him. Portions of the carpet have been cut away, likely to serve as evidence in the trial, but the rest has not been torn out or even cleaned. The stale air reeks of old blood.

“This is where it happened,” Sam exhales, surprised at the sudden shakiness in his joints.

Lisa stands behind him, her arms wrapped tight around her body. “Dean killed Master here, but it started somewhere else.” She takes a deep breath before crossing the remains of the blood-stained carpet, pausing in front of another door for a good minute before finally unlocking it.

The next room is large, with two more closed doors on the right side. There’s a bed with a thin mattress in the center, a pile of sheets and pillows thrown carelessly beside it. Metal shackles protrude from holes drilled into the headboard, and another set of shackles is attached to a piece of wood nailed across the foot of the bed.

A table is in the corner, with more shackles, spaced perfectly for someone to be bent over and secured into place. And then there’s something that looks like a wooden hitching post, with chains wrapped around the post and bolts on the floor. A metal collar hangs on a hook nearby, as does a leather bridle and a horse crop.

There’s a video tripod in another corner, the camera still attached, trained on the bed.

It doesn’t take much imagination to picture what had happened in this room.

Sam can feel the bile rising in his throat, and he leans against the wall hard, willing himself not to vomit. But he has to see this; Lisa has brought him here for a reason, and he needs to know everything. Dean’s life might depend on it.

“I need to see what’s in the other rooms,” Sam manages to rasp. Lisa pushes past him, swiping at the tears that are silently rolling down her cheeks, and unlocks the remaining two doors.

He staggers towards the first door and forces himself to open it. It looks like it used to be a small bathroom, but someone has converted it into a closet while leaving the toilet and sink. Rows and rows of shelves fill the walls, each filled with plastic boxes with their contents neatly labeled in black marker. “Lube.” “Dildos < 9 inches.” “Dildos > 9 inches.” “Ball gags.” “Butt plugs.” “Hoods and blindfolds.” “Handcuffs.” “Whips and floggers.”

The rows seem to go on forever, and Sam can’t bring himself to read any more of the labels. He can feel his mind trying to shut down, trying to force out the mental pictures that are forming of Dean on that very bed, his torture being videotaped for his Master’s later viewing pleasure.

Sam slams the door shut, doesn’t want to open the other one, terrified of what he’ll find, but knowing he has to do it.

The final room is incredibly hot and stuffy, dark except for the little bit of light seeping in from the main room. The walls have been reinforced with what looks like concrete bricks, which in turn are plastered over, and the whole room stinks overwhelmingly of piss and shit. There’s a bucket in the corner, no doubt the source of the putrefying odors, and a chain attached to a far wall with a metal collar at its end. There’s no bed, no blankets, nothing except for that bucket and that chain, and yet Sam knows, deep in his heart, that this was Dean’s “bedroom,” where he was kept until his Master wanted him.

This…this is worse than he could have ever, _ever_ imagined.

Sam finally loses his battle with his stomach, barely making it to the toilet in the converted closet before throwing up what feels like everything he has ever eaten in his lifetime.

 


	18. xviii.

**xviii.**

Sam doesn’t realize that Lisa has joined him in the closet/bathroom until he stops gagging long enough to hear her sobs. She’s openly crying now, sitting on the floor with her legs curled up tight against her chest.

“Lisa.” Sam scoots closer to her, his voice hoarse, his throat raw and burning. “I need to know everything.”

“I didn’t know,” she manages to whimper. “I didn’t know it was so bad until the night Master died.” She balls her hands into fists and grinds them into her eyes. “I mean, I knew that Master raped him. He raped me, too. You almost expect that, you know?”

Sam wants to touch her, to comfort her, but he stops himself at the last second, remembering vividly how Dean had reacted to an unexpected touch. He needs whatever she’s kept bottled up inside; Sam doesn’t want to do anything that might stop her from sharing her memories with him.

“Dean was here long before me, something like fifteen years total, he told me once. I didn’t even meet Dean until I’d been here almost a year, and that was by accident. Master kept him away from Mistress – Mrs. Fitzhugh – and me most of the time. It was only when Master went away for business that Mist—Mrs. Fitzhugh would bring Dean downstairs. It was a secret.”

“Why didn’t he run away then?” Sam can’t stop the question, even though he knows it’s stupid. He has no idea, really, what life was like here.

Lisa peers up at him with bloodshot eyes. “Are you serious? Where was he going to run to? If you run away, they track you until they find you, and then it’s ten times worse than before once you’re back. Plus Mistress…she was nice to us, really, in her way. He didn’t want to get her into trouble, I guess. I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry. Dumb question.”

She wipes her nose with the sleeve of her shirt. “Yeah. Dean ran away a few times from his old master. He told me he did, at least. Eventually, that’s what got him sold to Master. That and the fact that he was getting too old for the other master, I guess. He liked little boys.” Lisa buries her head into her arms and starts crying again, harder this time.

“I have a little boy. Ben. He’s five. Master is his father, but…but I love him, you know? He’s mine, not his.” Her words are muffled, and Sam has to lean close to hear them. “I didn’t get to know Dean well before Ben. After I had Ben, when I’d see Dean, he’d be watching Ben all of the time. I’ll be honest, it kind of creeped me out at first. Like I said, I knew that Master was raping him too, and that kind of stuff can mess with you, make you into some sicko.”

“But that’s not why Dean was watching you.” Sam knows this is true, deep inside; he’s not sure why, but above all, he sees Dean as wanting to be a stand up kind of guy. After all of the shit Dean has been through, Sam can’t even begin to picture Dean hurting someone like he’s been hurt.

“No. He told me later, when I confronted him about it, that Ben reminded him of himself at that age. I guess that means that I remind him of his mother, huh? Weird.” Lisa sniffles, keeping her face hidden away from Sam. “Eventually, it got to the point where I trusted him with Ben. Sometimes they’d sit on the kitchen floor, when Master was away, and just color together for hours. Ben adores Dean.”

Now that is something Sam wants to see in his mind; he tries to will away the darker thoughts, tries to replace them with an image of Dean scribbling away in a coloring book, maybe even smiling while he does so.

“A couple of months ago, right before Master left for a business trip, he told me that it was time for Ben to go. He was going to sell him.” Lisa is trembling so badly that Sam can barely make out her words. “I told Dean, first thing. I didn’t know who else to tell. Mrs. Fitzhugh wouldn’t be much help; she couldn’t bring herself to stand up to Master. Dean was…livid.” She threads her fingers together and squeezes her knees even tighter. “I’d never really seen him upset like that before. He started telling me things, things about his first master and how he had hurt him, and how that wasn’t going to happen to Ben.”

“What did he tell you, Lisa?” Sam tries to make his voice as gentle as possible.

Lisa turns her eyes towards him, finally. “How he got sold to his first master when he was six, and his master would just…” She swallows hard a few times. “He hurt him so bad, Mr. Winchester, so bad that his first master had to call a doctor sometimes to come out to the house, to stitch him up afterwards.”

Sam’s stomach begins to roil again, his mind dredging up the emergency room doctor’s report. _Twenty-four years of this_ , Sam thinks to himself. _He was six years old. Six. Just a little kid when all of this started. Jesus._

“I honestly don’t know why he told me all of this stuff. We’d never really shared anything with one another before, at least not like...that. I think he was just so upset.  It was like he went somewhere else for a minute, like he snapped. And then—” Lisa’s chest hitches a few times before she can continue. “And then he said that he’d take care of it. I didn’t know what he meant at the time. Well, maybe I did. I don’t know. All I knew is that I couldn’t let what happened to Dean happen to my Ben.”

“And that’s why he killed him.” Sam’s mind is whirring, pulling him in a thousand different directions at once, as puzzle pieces fall neatly into place. It makes sense to him; it all makes sense. Dean could take what his Master had given him, no matter how painful or humiliating; he’d been doing so since he was six years old. He’d never imagined another type of life; this was all there was for him. But when it came to someone he cared about, a little innocent boy who reminded Dean of himself, going through the same abuse that he had…well, Dean had lost it, finally.

“The night that Master came home, he went upstairs like usual. And then…an hour or so later, Dean came down, covered in blood, saying that he’d finally killed the bastard. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted him to run, but he wouldn’t. He said he didn’t have anywhere to go. He told me to get Mistress up, and I did, and she just…bawled, she was so happy that Master was dead. And she was so grateful. He asked Mistress to set me and Ben free, which she did, a few days later. And then he asked her to call the police.”

“Did he say anything else? Do anything else?” Sam watches Lisa’s eyes skitter away from his, focusing on the shelves, the walls, anything but him. “Lisa, this is important. This might save Dean’s life.”

“Master used to have these…parties. That’s what he called them, at least. Some guys – ten or twenty of them – would come over when Master was here, and they’d all go upstairs for the night. I thought they were business parties. I didn’t know, or maybe I didn't want to know.” Lisa still won’t meet his eyes. “I didn’t know for sure until the night that Master died that they were sex parties, and Dean was the entertainment. He never told anyone about them, but Mistress knew. She and I would hide in her sitting room those nights, with her ‘angels,’ and she would just sit there and pray to herself...I should have known, but it was so much easier to just turn a blind eye to everything that didn't involve me directly, you know?  I couldn't do anything for him, anyway. I couldn't even help Ben or myself."  Lisa pauses to take a deep breath before continuing.  “Dean didn’t tell me about them, either. He asked me to go up here and take some stuff after it all happened. The bookcase in Master’s study – it was full of tapes, hundreds of them. Dean asked me to get them all and burn them.”

“And you burned them.” The only evidence that Sam might have had to testify to the abuse that Dean had suffered at the hands of his master is now ashes scattered to the four corners of the earth. He wants to bang his head against the wall; once again, Dean is sabotaging his own defense.

“No,” Lisa whispers, her eyes wide. “No, I didn’t do it. I took the tapes, and Mrs. Fitzhugh saw me bringing some of them downstairs. She told me about the parties, and that Master taped them all. She said that the tapes were important, that we had to protect them because they might help Dean someday. So I threw them in a box and hid them in the garage, up in the rafters, while Mrs. Fitzhugh was talking to the police. They’re still there.”

 


	19. xix.

**xix.**

When the guards change shifts on Dean’s sixth day in the hospital, Dean knows something’s up. The overnight guy is usually ready to get the hell out of here after a long night of sitting by the door in a dark hallway; today, though, he just grumbles something about overtime and stays put.

The other guard enters the room, pulls up a chair beside Dean’s bed, and plops down beside him. It’s Velez again today, a surprisingly friendly guard, a chatterbox who had talked Dean’s ear off yesterday. Dean didn’t mind, at least not much; staring at the same four walls all day gets really boring, and Velez has some really hilarious stories to share.

“Got some good news for you,” Velez says, swinging his legs up and resting them against the corner of Dean’s bed. “Gonna get out of this dump today, go back to ours.”

“Yeah?” Dean rolls his eyes. “Can’t wait.”

“Hell, you get to stay in our infirmary for at least another month. Docs say since your spleen is gone, you gotta build up your immune system or some shit, stay away from the other dudes for a while. You know what that means? Nurse Randau.” Velez lets out a low, admiring whistle before continuing. “Nurse fucking Randau, you lucky bastard. She got an ass on her that don’t quit. Damn.”

Dean just blinks at Velez, who shakes his head. “Jesus, man, that doesn’t do anything for you? You not an ass man or something?”

Dean doesn’t know what kind of man he is; all he knows is that he’s never been sexually attracted to a woman in his life, and he has no idea if that’s because he’s fucked up inside from Master Michael and Master James or what. But he’s not about to tell Velez that, so he just shrugs his shoulders. “Got to see her before I make up my mind, I guess.”

“Well, you wait, man. You wait and see, and the next time I talk to you, you’re gonna tell me how right I was.” Velez grins at him. “That lawyer of yours tell you that he got you into protective custody after the docs say you’re good to go? Gonna be on my block now.”

“Yeah, I told him that being around you was going to be cruel and unusual punishment, but he didn’t listen.” Dean smirks as Velez laughs; a good comeback, not letting Velez realize that he hadn’t known that at all. Sammy hasn’t come around for a few days, and Dean has been wondering if his outburst had scared the guy off permanently. Either that, or maybe he has a new client, someone who doesn’t flip his shit whenever someone touches him.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter; what Sammy does or doesn’t do is none of Dean’s business.

Yeah.

Whatever.

\--------------------

The jail’s infirmary is just as boring as the hospital, maybe even more so. There’s only a couple of prisoners in it right now, with a few guards and a nurse. Velez might have a thing for Nurse Randau, but all Dean can see is how tired she always looks, like she’s seen way too much shit in her career to even try to care about anything but getting through another day. Dean doesn’t bother her, and she leaves him alone, except when it comes time for his daily antibiotic pills or to write something in his chart.

The librarian sends down a cart of tattered paperbacks, and Dean takes a few, the ones with the most interesting covers. One of them has a guy wearing a space suit and toting a laser gun, shooting at something above him. Another has some crazy ass plant with huge pointed teeth trying to devour a man whole. He pretends to read them when the nurse makes her rounds.

Most of the time, though, he just stares off into space. It feels like Dean has spent most of his life like this – waiting for something to happen, or something to be over, or something to change.

Same old, same old.

\--------------------

“You got a visitor.”

Dean glances up at the guard, sticking his thumb in his book to mark his place, even though it doesn’t matter – he just picks a random page every time he opens it. It’s been several days since he’s heard from Sammy, almost a week, but that’s the only person it can possibly be.

“Nurse says you gotta put this on.” The guard tosses him something blue, and Dean unfolds it to reveal a mask, like the ones the nurses at the hospital had worn sometimes. “You okay to go upstairs?”

Dean nods, covers his nose and mouth with the mask, and then extends his arms for the handcuffs to be fastened on his wrists. He’s a little excited about the visit – not because he wants to see Sammy, of course, but because it means a chance to get out of the infirmary for an hour or two.

Right.

His side still hurts when he has to walk, even more so with the extra weight of the waist chain resting on his hips, so Dean has to shuffle along. The guards flanking him look a little annoyed at Dean’s slow pace, but they don’t try to rush him up the stairs.

There’s a little flutter of panic against Dean’s ribcage when they pause on the landing, but this isn’t that stairwell, these aren’t those men, and Dean quickly realizes that the guards are just giving him the opportunity to catch his breath before climbing the rest of the stairs to the visiting room. An unexpected kindness, but then again, most of the guards aren’t assholes; they’re just guys trying to earn a living, same as everyone else.

He slides into the chair across from Sammy, surprised at the lawyer’s disheveled appearance. Sammy has always looked so put together, even in a rumpled t-shirt or one of his cheap suits, but he sure doesn’t today. There are dark smudges under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept in days, and his jaw is shadowed with stubble.

“Dude, no offense, but you look like shit,” Dean says candidly as the guards retreat out the door, shutting it with a loud bang.

“Yeah, well, I feel like shit,” he mumbles, dragging a hand through his hair, tucking it behind his ear.

“You sick or something?” Dean studies the lawyer’s haggard face. He sure looks sick to Dean. “I mean, geez, Sammy, you look like someone beat you to hell and back.”

“I wouldn’t have come if I was sick.” Sammy offers him a tight little smile. “Just working hard, I guess. Jury selection’s been pushed back to early next month, but I don’t think we’re going to get another delay unless you end up in the hospital again.”

“Well, don’t make yourself sick on my account.” Dean rattles his chains a little, making them clink together. The guards had forgotten to uncuff him, or maybe they hadn’t forgotten at all. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The lawyer snorts. “You know, Dean, I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately.”

“Oh, that just makes my heart race, Sammy.”

“I’ve been thinking…you’re the only guy I’ve met in almost four years who hasn’t wanted a defense. You don’t give a damn if I show up to court with anything to help you or not.” Sammy hunches forward, close enough so Dean could reach out and graze his fingers against the lawyer’s shoulder. “And I’ve been wondering why that is.”

Dean furrows his eyebrows. There’s something different about the man sitting across from him today, and it’s not just the fact that he looks like crap. “I told you that I was guilty. I did it, Sammy.”

“So?” He laughs, a short, sharp bark without any humor in it. “I think that every single one of the guys I’ve represented has been guilty, Dean, but that sure didn’t stop them from asking me to do something for them – get them a reduced sentence, get them set free, whatever. But not you. Not you.” And then the hard edge in Sammy’s voice melts away, replaced with a gentler tone. “And I think I finally figured out why. You don’t want to be saved.”

“That so?” Dean leans back in his chair, the hard metal edge grating against his still-healing ribs. Pain is good. Pain makes him concentrate. “If you got everything figured out, why are you here?”

“Because I can’t tell if you think you don’t deserve to be saved, or if you just want to die. Maybe it’s both.”

Sam suddenly can’t meet Dean’s eyes; he’s staring down at his steepled hands. Not a good sign. Dean presses against the chair harder, until he winces. He has a feeling that he’s not going to like whatever is about to come out of Sammy’s mouth.

“You wouldn’t help me, Dean. I had to talk to Mrs. Fitzhugh and…Lisa.” Sam sighs loudly, splays his fingers on the table between them. “Lisa gave me the tapes.”

Dean takes a deep breath; it makes his ribs ache, stretches his left side so bad that tears spring to his eyes. He exhales, does it again.

_Pain is good._

_Focus._

_Focus on the pain._

Sammy has those eyes zeroed in on him, oozing with sympathy. He doesn’t need to tell Dean that he’s already watched some of those tapes; Dean knows it, deep in his gut. Those same eyes have seen Dean with a cock shoved up his ass and another crammed down his throat, with ten or twenty or more guys circling the bed like hyenas, waiting their turns. Those same eyes have seen Dean being fucked raw, so bad that he couldn’t even stand the next day. The beatings, the whips and chains and “toys,” the ruffled pink panties that he’d been forced to wear for Master James at times. The humiliating jeers and catcalls when Dean’s body had betrayed him, more than once, more than he cares to remember, when Master James or someone else had rubbed up against something inside of him just right, and Dean had been too weak, too filthy and disgusting, to fight against the unexpected and unwanted waves of pressure-pleasure-pain, and to his horror, Dean had gotten an erection…all of it.

Sammy has seen _all_ of it.

The pain in his chest, in his side, is nothing compared to the pain fueled by that knowledge. Nothing.

He’s been betrayed again, except not by his own traitorous body this time, but by someone Dean trusted. Sammy, _Sammy_ , with those puppy dog eyes and caring words and…he’d…

Dean had given him his _name_. Only five people in the whole world know his name, and he had just… _hurt_ him, how could he…those tapes…how could Lisa…he’d watched…

He rises to his feet, unsteady, feeling like he’s about to fall to the floor with every step. He stands by the door, waits for the guards to open it, even though the lawyer is calling to him, using his name.

He’d _trusted_ him.

He'll never make that mistake again.

 


	20. xx.

**xx.**

“You got a visitor.”

Dean doesn’t bother looking at the guard. “So?”

“So, you got a visitor. Get up.” The man tosses a blue mask on Dean’s bed again. Dean stares at it, remembering how he’d been almost happy yesterday in these same circumstances. Now he’s tired, completely drained.

“I don’t feel good.” It’s the truth; he feels like someone has taken a spoon to his insides and carved out some essential pieces, the parts filled with piss and vinegar and the will to keep breathing. Now he’s just empty.

He’d spent most of the night awake, fighting against his tired eyes and weary body, afraid of where his dreams would take him. He’s terrified that the thin wall he’d built inside to keep the worst at bay is gone now, and the memories will flood into his newly-hollowed gut, pulling him under until he drowns.

“You really sick?” The guard huffs out his breath, his words tinged with disbelief. He’s heard this all before, a million times over probably.

“I don’t know.” Dean mumbles; he doesn’t have the energy to make his voice more convincing. “I don’t feel good.”

The guard shuffles away, the keys on his belt jingling loudly with each step. There’s murmuring for a moment, the words blurred and indistinct, and then Nurse Randau is padding over to Dean’s bed, clipboard in hand.

“Where does it hurt?” she asks, setting a plastic basket on the blanket. She withdraws a curved metal thing, wipes it with an alcohol pad.

_It doesn’t hurt_ , Dean wants to say. _I don’t feel anything at all now, except exhausted._ But that requires too much effort, so he doesn't say anything.

She runs the metal instrument across his forehead, tapping behind his ear, and then frowns at it. “You don’t have a fever. That’s good.” She scribbles something down on a sheet of paper. “Are you just feeling run down, tired?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Nurse Randau nods, scribbles some more. “I’ll just tell the guard that you’re not well enough to receive visitors today. All right?”

Dean closes his eyes. “Okay.”

\--------------------

Sammy keeps coming back.

The second day, and the third, and the fourth. Dean figures out on the third day that he can refuse visitation, that he doesn’t have to pretend to be sick to do that, even though it doesn’t feel like he’s really pretending at all.

He’s had these “episodes” before, as Master Michael had called them; the doctor at Master Michael’s had labeled it depression and written him a prescription. Master James had just said he was lazy.

Nurse Randau calls the jail physician on the fourth day, who then phones a psychiatrist. More pills.

On the fifth day, the lawyer calls the warden and demands to speak to him. Nurse Randau brings him a portable phone, but Dean won’t take it from her.

 


	21. xxi.

**xxi.**

Sam has fucked up, big time, and he knows it.

He goes to the jail every day for a week, but Dean won’t see him.

He calls the warden, but Dean won’t talk to him.

He writes Dean a seven-page letter, pouring out his heart, telling him that he’s sorry, that he should have handled it better, that he’d been tired and upset and frustrated that Fitzhugh is already dead because he’d like to kill the bastard himself, preferably with his own bare hands, but Dean doesn’t write back, or even acknowledge receiving the letter.

Shit.

He’s fucked up bad.

\--------------------

Anna answers on the fourth ring, her voice uncharacteristically breathy and soft, as if Sam has caught her in mid-laugh. She’d given him her cell phone number at an office party a few years ago, shortly after Sam had been hired, and Anna had been laughing then, too, although more from the spiked punch than anything else. Back then, she had intimated that he could call her any time; somehow, though, Sam doubts that this is what she had meant.

“Anna.” Sam swallows hard. “I’m…I have a problem.” And then the words just spill out, unbidden and uncontrolled, and he tells her everything, or nearly so – about Dean’s beating and rape in jail; about the ER doctor’s report and the emergency surgery; about Mrs. Fitzhugh and Lisa and Ben and the horrible room in the attic; about the tapes and what’s on them; about telling Dean about the tapes and dropping the fucking ball so badly that Dean won’t even talk to him anymore, and jury selection is in less than two weeks and he is so, _so_ screwed.

Anna just listens, not making a sound, until Sam remembers to breathe, the deluge of words coming to an abrupt halt as the need to get everything out is finally trumped by the need for air.

“Sam,” she says at last, “calm down. You’re letting this case get under your skin, and that isn’t going to do anyone a favor, especially your client.” Her voice quiets, grows gentler. “I’m worried about you, Sam. It sounds like you’re approaching this as a friend, rather than a lawyer.”

Sam doesn’t remember the exact minute when he crossed the line, edging into friendship territory with Dean, but Anna is right. Why else would he care so much about Dean’s feelings? If this was just a job, he’d be using those tapes without regret, knowing that they’d benefit Dean in the end; instead, after watching a few of them a night, he spends countless hours agonizing over everything Dean’s suffered, until Sam is physically sick with grief and worry.

“Look, Sam—” There’s a rough scratching sound in Sam’s ear, as if Anna’s placing a hand over the receiver, and then a muffled voice in the background, lower and huskier than Anna’s. It’s suddenly obvious that she has company, male company, and Sam is a bit mortified that he interrupted her with his nervous breakdown. But she murmurs something, low and indecipherable, and then rejoins him on the line. “Sam, listen. I’ll go to the jail tomorrow morning. Maybe he’ll be willing to talk to me.”

Sam exhales in relief. All he wants to know is that Dean is all right; even if Dean never forgives him, he just wants the other man to be okay. “Thanks, Anna. I owe you big.”

He can almost hear Anna’s smile. “You bet your ass you do, Winchester.”

\--------------------

Anna calls him during her lunch break the next day. “Hey, Sam. Good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

Sam fumbles for the remote control, and hits pause on the latest video tape. He’s somehow managed to watch almost seventy of them in the past ten days; that’s at least two hundred hours, probably more, of seeing Dean being tortured, raped, beaten, and degraded. He fast-forwards through most of them now, but it doesn't lessen the gut-wrenching impact; if anything, it makes everything worse, watching Dean's life speeding by in a blur of agony, nothing really changing except the faces of the men on the tapes.  He doesn’t know how much more he can stomach without having a serious break with reality.

“Good news. I need some of that right now.”

“So, I spoke with your client. He’s alive, and relatively healthy.” She sighs hard, and Sam has to hold the phone away from his ear for a second, missing a few of her next words. “—clinical depression, but he’s being treated for it. He didn’t tell me that, of course, but the infirmary guard did after I gave him one of my winning smiles.”

“Okay.”

“Bad news is…he doesn’t want to talk to you, Sam. At all.” Anna sighs again, but softer this time. “He doesn’t want another lawyer. He doesn’t want _any_ lawyer, but there’s no way he’s going to be judged competent to serve as his own defense counsel. So it looks like your own with this one, Sam.”

It’s Sam’s turn to sigh now. He’s not surprised – he can only imagine how he would react to a similar situation – but it still hurts.

“Look, Sam, I know you had high hopes about this case, and you obviously care about what happens to the guy, but…I mean, if your client isn’t even willing to talk to you, much less work with you…there’s not much you can do for him, you know?” Anna pauses for a moment. “I guess I’m just saying not to get your hopes up for this one, Sam. Save that fire for someone else. There’ll be another case like this.”

Sam makes a noncommittal noise before saying goodbye to Anna. There might be another case, sure, but there won’t be another chance for Dean. This is it, and he doesn’t know if he will be able to live with himself if he doesn’t give Dean everything.

He unpauses the video tape.

 


	22. xxii.

**xxii.**

In Sam’s opinion, _voir dire_ is the most important day of the trial, even though the trial won’t even start until next week. One of his law professors had always compared it to picking the right players for a football team, but Sam sees it more as a poker game – reading people’s facial expressions, reading between the lines, sizing up who will be persuaded by his arguments and who won’t. Pick right, and the trial will be a lot easier.

Pick wrong, and Dean inches that much closer to the electric chair.

There’s a standard set of questions, almost a script, and Sam has most of them memorized. But it’s not the answers he pays attention to; it’s the actions, the inflections, if they’ll look him in the eye or not.

The accountant keeps glancing at her watch, and Sam puts an X by her name. She seems impatient, not wanting to be here, and that can be dangerous for the defense. She might make up her mind quickly, pigeonholing Dean before Sam has the opportunity to present his own arguments.

There’s an older woman who has a pin on her sweater of a child wearing a cheerleading uniform – a grandchild? Sam puts a question mark beside her name. Someone with children or grandchildren might be able to empathize with Dean’s desperation to save Ben.

Sam puts another question mark beside the name of the ultrasound tech. Sam has tracked down the emergency room doctor who had treated Dean after his rape in jail, and the doctor is willing to testify about the injuries Dean sustained in the past. Someone in the medical field might give more weight to the doctor’s testimony.

And then there’s the student, a psychology major with a minor in chemistry. Sam hesitates, then circles his name. It’s too late for Sam to try an insanity defense, and those usually only work on television shows, anyway. But he’s going to dance around the issue, insinuating that Dean suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder. All of the signs are there, and hopefully the student will pick up on them.

One of the businessmen admits that his family owned a fae slave when he was younger, and Sam quickly marks an X beside his name.

Another man, a stay-at-home father, says that he thinks fae slavery is wrong. Sam circles his name, even though he knows that the prosecutor will never agree to him being on the jury. And then Sam watches the reactions to his statement – the accountant narrows her eyes, reconfirming Sam’s initial X, but the grandmother nods her head almost imperceptibly. Sam crosses out the question mark beside the grandmother’s name and circles it instead.

In the end, Sam isn’t necessarily happy – the stay-at-home father is dismissed, as well as the grandmother – but it’s a rare occasion when he’s pleased after jury selection. He feels okay with the choices – the accountant was also dismissed, and he still has the ultrasound tech, and the student, and several others whose names have question marks beside them instead of Xs.

He has four days to polish his opening statement, and then it’s go time.

 


	23. xxiii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updates and getting behind on reviews - the wife and I went on a much-needed vacation to celebrate our anniversary. :)

**xxiii.**

Dean is…striking…in his suit. Pale and wan and avoiding Sam’s eyes like the plague, too, but…well, he certainly looks different in hospital gowns and jailhouse orange. And, judging from the number of appreciative glances from the spectators as Dean is escorted down the aisle to the defense table, Sam’s not the only one who has noticed.

But Dean seems completely oblivious as he slides into the wooden chair, staring straight ahead. A muscle tics in Dean’s clenched jaw, and Sam feels completely bereft of adequate words, which particularly sucks, since that is kind of how he makes his living. How does someone apologize in this type of situation?

_Hey, Dean, I’m sorry that I watched all of those video tapes of you being sexually assaulted, and even sorrier that I’m going to have to show them to complete strangers, all without telling you most of this, but I kind of want to save your life. Sorry?_

Sam sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose; another day, another migraine on the horizon. “Okay, look,” he says at last, trying to keep his voice down so no one else can hear him. “I’m sorry, all right? And I know that probably means shit to you right now, but like it or not, we’re in this together. So just stand when people tell you to stand, sit when everyone else does, and try not to look so pissed at me, because it’ll give the jurors the wrong idea.”

Dean doesn’t reply, but his features smooth into the bland mask that Sam has seen so often. It’s an improvement, Sam guesses; come to think of it, it’s the first thing that Dean has really done to help his case.

\--------------------

The prosecutor’s opening statement is very clinical, so much so that even Sam finds his mind wandering while she delivers it. Sam can almost hear one of his old professors repeating his favorite mantra: “Jurors don’t want a lecture; they want a _story_.”

And that is what Sam intends to give them, once it’s his turn to address them. Sam had done a research paper back in law school, analyzing studies that had shown how many jurors decide a person’s guilt or innocence during the opening statements, and nothing short of a dramatic in-court confession will change their minds after that.

So he sits at the table, his hands folded neatly in front of him, his face arranged into a polite and attentive configuration, even though he’s totally rehearsing his own opening statement in his head instead of listening to the prosecutor’s. Appearance is nearly everything in court.

Sam glances over at Dean, whose eyes are fixed on the prosecutor. Dean doesn’t react at all when she points towards him and says he committed the murder in cold blood, not even a flinch.

He doesn’t have time to wonder what Dean is thinking about, though; the prosecutor’s heels are clacking noisily across the wooden floor, and then the judge is informing Sam that it is his turn to speak. Sam takes a sip of water, a deep breath, and then plasters his best this-is-serious-but-I’m-not-scary-and-neither-is-my-client expression in place.

“Ladies, gentlemen. The prosecutor has thrown a lot of facts at you this morning, but ultimately, this trial is about something very simple: a little boy. My client—” Sam gestures towards Dean with an open palm, to avoid looking accusatory, “—was a little boy once, just like any other little boy until he was about six years old. Then he was ripped from his mother’s arms—” Sam isn’t sure if this part is exactly true, especially without Dean telling him a thing, but he can imagine it, “and sold to a much older man, who abused him.”

Sam meets a juror’s eyes, then another’s, and then another’s. They’re all watching him, willing to keep eye contact; that’s a good sign. “Imagine, if you can, a little boy, torn away from the only person who had ever loved him, to be kept as a sex slave. He was raped repeatedly, so badly, as a doctor will later testify, that he still bears the scars from the brutal assaults.” It hurts Sam to think of that little boy, but that is the point; he wants the other jurors to feel that, too. “Imagine, if you can, a little boy being held down, having his flesh torn open repeatedly for a grown man’s sexual pleasure, screaming, bleeding and in pain and crying for his mother, and no one helping him.” Also something Sam doesn’t know for sure, but it’s a damned good guess.

The ultrasound tech looks away, as do a few of the other jurors. Also good. “When that little boy was older, about fourteen, that man sold him to someone else – if you can picture it, someone even crueler. Another grown man, this time a man who locked that boy inside an attic, keeping him away from everyone else in the household, and raping him. And not only did this other man rape him – he invited his friends over for sex parties, where my client was raped by upwards of ten, sometimes twenty, men at a time, one after the other, for hours.” Sam’s breath hitches a little, but it’s involuntary, unrehearsed. “And that man taped every single moment of my client’s torture.

“I’m afraid that I’m going to have to ask you to watch some of those tapes later in this trial. It’s going to be hard to watch – believe me, I’ve seen them myself, and what is on those tapes is disgusting and brutal, the stuff of nightmares. But that, ladies and gentlemen, was my client’s life for over a decade. He was raped and beaten; he was chained in a room that had no toilet, no windows, not even a bed or a blanket. And yet, my client didn’t kill his master, even though the conditions he lived in were atrocious, and no one in his or her right mind could have blamed him for it.”

Sam pauses and surveys the jurors. Over half of them aren’t looking at him now, but a few are still watching, and he makes sure to have eye contact with every single one of those few before continuing. “My client was abused for most of his life, but that isn’t why we’re here, because that didn’t drive him to kill his master. What made him snap, what _forced_ him to react, was a little boy. His name is Ben, and he’s five years old – just like any other five year old, just like my client used to be, at that age – sweet and loving and innocent, even though he, like many children in similar situations, is the product of rape.

“Ben’s mother was raped by the same man who tortured my client, but he was loved and treasured by his mother. His father, on the other hand, the man my client is accused of murdering, decided that it was time for Ben to be sold, just like my client was, to be the sex slave of a grown man, to be raped and battered and abused for the rest of his life. And my client could not tolerate this.” Sam swallows convulsively, pushes the anger that is rising in his throat back down, clinging to his I’m-righteously-upset-but-not-a-raging-lunatic mask.

“He could not tolerate the thought of that sweet little boy being held down like he had been at that age. All my client could hear was his own screams; all he could feel was his own pain. And he could not – _would_ not – allow that to happen to someone else, to someone else’s child. Could you?” Sam stares hard at every person in the juror box. “Could _you_? Could you stand by and allow a little boy to be raped? Abused? Torn open over and over and over, for a pervert’s sexual gratification? Could you let that happen? My client couldn’t.”

Sam takes a deep breath, lets his words ring in the silence of the court room for a moment. “I am not disputing the fact that Mr. Fitzhugh is dead, and that it was by my client’s hand. You will hear numerous witnesses testify to the fact that my client has admitted this. But what I _am_ challenging, what I am challenging _you_ to see through, is the assertion that my client _murdered_ this man in cold blood. He did no such thing. What he did is protect a little boy. He saved an innocent life, and I am asking you to do the same now. Thank you.”

Dean’s eyes follow Sam all the way back to the defense table.

 


	24. xxiv.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that it's been so long between updates - my wife has had three surgeries since my last update due to a chronic condition, and I just haven't had any time to write or update. Hopefully the updates will be more frequent now that she is doing better. :)

**xxiv.**

The rest of the first day is boring; Dean had watched a few episodes _of Law & Order_ in the hospital, and the show had made trials seem exciting. But there’s nothing really exciting about listening to a bunch of forensics geeks use two-dollar words and cops testifying that yeah, Dean did or said this or that. Dean already knows what he did, knows what he said, and so he just lets the voices blur into some indistinct white noise.

Once in a while Sammy pops up to object to something or to ask questions, and one time the lawyer somehow manages to piss off a cop so bad that the dude’s face turns an ugly shade of red, although Dean had been tuning them out and doesn’t know exactly what went down.

The anti-depressants make him tired, and Dean spends most of the day thinking about the bed back in the infirmary, about how he’d like to be there right now instead of here, dressed up in this monkey suit and put on parade.

After what feels like centuries, people are getting up and filing out of the court room, and Sammy is saying something about needing to talk to him. Talk, talk, talk; that’s all Sammy ever wants to do, talk and share. The guy is full of words; stab him in the side, and nothing but a jumble of letters will probably spill out.

Dean looks at Sammy, thinks about the letter shoved under his mattress back in the infirmary, with seven pages of front-to-back scrawl – all words for Dean, but he can’t make heads or tails of any of them, and he is too embarrassed to ask Nurse Randau to read it to him, to admit that he can’t do it himself.

“Look, I know you’re pissed at me, and I can’t say that I blame you,” the lawyer finally murmurs, shoving a hand in his suit pocket. “But I gotta—”

And then the guards are there, ready to take him back to jail, and Sammy shuts up abruptly. “Hey, okay, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, his voice pumped full of false cheer, and Dean has a feeling that something bad is coming, and Sammy had been trying to warn him.

 


	25. xxv.

**xxv.**

The widow looks even more delicate than she had last month. She’s wearing a black dress that washes most of the color out of her face, highlighting the dark smudges under her eyes. If she’s wearing any makeup at all, it’s not obvious to Sam, and the result gives her a girlish, innocent air.

She isn’t Sam’s witness, at least not technically speaking; her name is on the prosecutor’s list, a “dash and done” witness, called more for show than substance. The prosecutor wants the grieving widow on display, talking about how she had found her husband’s battered corpse that night, evoking sympathy from the jurors.

But that’s not what she’ll be; she’s going to be Sam’s star witness, the base upon which he is building his defense. That is, if she can keep the angel talk at bay and not turn into a sobbing mess on the stand.

As she’s sworn in, Sam thinks back to the last time he’d spoken to her – a brief phone call a week ago, lasting only a few minutes. She’d told him that the prosecutor had called her, too, asked her about that night, and she had cried while talking to her – but not, she’d been quick to say, because she was sad about her husband’s death. She’d cried for Dean, how he’d looked, bruised and bloody with his hands twisted behind his back, flanked by two hulking police officers.

The widow had told Sam a lot of things in those few minutes.

In the end, Sam had only asked her to tell the truth, to keep it together. She can cry, if she feels like it, but none of the woo-woo stuff about the angels and her husband being a devil.

“I can do it,” she'd promised, her voice breathy. “I can do it for Dean.”

Sam hopes she’s right.

* * *

 

He can see the change in Dean as soon as Mrs. Fitzhugh takes the stand. Sam’s client straightens in his chair, and his breathing speeds up, almost imperceptibly. Sam only knows a little bit about their shared history, but he imagines it’s much like other people who have survived something terrible together – there will always be a bond, a similar scar on the soul that only someone who has lived through that experience can see and understand.

The prosecutor only has a few questions for the widow, as Sam suspected. It isn’t long before Sam is rising from the defense table, his heart pounding as he wings a silent prayer upwards, hoping beyond hope that the widow won’t fall apart. There’s so much at stake here.

“Mrs. Fitzhugh,” he says, infusing his voice with warmth. Above all, he has to appear gentle and kind; if the jurors think that he’s badgering the witness, anything she says may be discounted. She has to impart her information willingly, without the hint of coercion. “You are, legally speaking, my client’s mistress, correct?”

The widow nods, then pauses, apparently remembering that she must speak her answers aloud for the record. “Yes.”

“Can you tell the court how you first came to own my client?” He keeps a respectful distance away from the witness box; he can’t crowd her or appear menacing, and their height difference alone might give that impression if Sam isn’t careful.

“I—he was my husband’s.” Her face pinches, as if it pains her to say those words. “When I married my husband, James already owned…your client.”

“How did you come to meet your husband? Did he tell you that he owned a slave before you married him?”

The widow shakes her head vigorously. “No. No, he didn’t say a word about it. I met James abroad, in Italy. I was almost eighteen, young and stupid. And impulsive. It was a whirlwind courtship, about a month, and then we eloped. I…I didn’t know him very well, then. My husband, that is.”

“And when you moved into the house that you shared, did he tell you about my client then? Introduce you?”

“No. No, he didn’t. I didn’t know until – well, my husband traveled a lot for business. He was gone for a few days, not long after we came back to the States, and I thought I heard something in the attic. Something moving up there. Like an animal.” Mrs. Fitzhugh draws in a deep breath. “I was scared. I’d never lived in the country before, and all I could think was that it was some ravenous wolf or bear or something up there. So I called James. He told me that sometimes raccoons got inside the attic, and to not go up there because they carried rabies. He said he’d take care of it the next day, when he got home.”

“Did you do as he asked?”

Another shake of the head. “No. It sounded too large, too heavy, to be a raccoon. Maybe a herd of them, but not one. So…I grabbed a fire poker from downstairs, and…I went up. My husband told me to never go up there, that it wasn’t insulated and there was just a bunch of junk and dust, but…I, I thought it was a wild bear that might sneak downstairs and kill me in my sleep.” A flash of a nervous smile now, soon gone. “There was a big room, with a bed in the middle, and the sheets were…stained. It looked like..like dried blood, and…semen. And then I heard a sound, behind a closed door, and, and I opened the door, expecting a bear still. But it wasn’t a bear. It was a boy. Or a man. A young man, I guess.”

“Is that young man in the court room today?” Sam takes a step back, allowing the jury a clear view of Dean.

“Yes. He’s right there, your client.” The widow’s smile disappears as she looks at the man seated at the defense table. “He was…he…he was hurt.”

“Hurt?”

“Yes. He was…” Tears start to well up in the widow’s eyes, but she blinks a few times, obviously trying to compose herself. “He was on the floor in this little room, lying on his stomach, and his back was just…just torn to ribbons, big long red marks all over. Some of them had scabbed over, but some were still bleeding, like they were fresher. And he was…naked, and…” A small hiccup, and Sam can see Mrs. Fitzhugh digging her fingers into her skirt, visibly trying to keep calm. “And he was chained to the wall. There was a big chain around his neck, long enough for him to get up and move around a little, but…maybe eight feet long?”

“What did you do?” Sam forces himself to concentrate, to not picture Dean in that room, but it’s hard.

“I…I just…stood there, for a minute. I didn’t know what to do. Who was this man? Why…how…he was hurt, and he obviously hadn’t broken into the attic. He was _kept_ here. I…I finally approached him, and he must – he heard me, because he turned his head. And his face…oh, it was…his eyes were both black and swollen shut, and there was dried blood everywhere, and his lip was split. He…he looked so bad.” A few tears escape down the widow’s cheeks, and she fumbles for a tissue. “I don’t think he could see me, his eyes were so…and he said ‘Master?’ That’s when I knew. I knew…my husband…he’d…”

“What did you do then?” Sam asks, gently guiding her along, not allowing Mrs. Fitzhugh to linger too long in the memory.

“I…I kneeled down and touched him, just his arm. I didn’t even know if he was real. How could this be _real_? In my attic, under my roof, this…and he flinched, like, like he expected me to hit him. And I asked him, who was he? He told me that he belonged to Master James.” Mrs. Fitzhugh swallows hard, stifling a sob. “And I was so angry, so mad that my husband could _do_ this, and I wanted to unlock the chain, but Dea—your client—begged me not to, not to mention that I’d even seen him, because…because of what Master would do.” Her blue eyes are blurry with unshed tears. “But I had to do something, so I went downstairs and brought him up a bowl of soup. He was…he…he cried, a little, and could barely eat any of it, but he said it was the first time he’d eaten something warm in over five…five years. He’d been here five years, and…it was just a bowl of Campbell’s, put in the microwave, but…he was so grateful, so, like I’d…done something amazing, with that soup. It was just _soup_.”

It’s Sam’s turn to swallow against the lump forming in his throat. “And then what happened?” His voice is croaky, and he glances over at the jurors. The student’s face has a decidedly ashen cast to it, and he’s not alone in his obvious discomfort.

“I tried to wash the blood off his face, but…it hurt him, and I stopped. I took a blanket from the bed and put it over his legs, but not his back, because of the…because they were still bleeding. And I left him up there.” Another tear tracks down her flushed cheek. “I…I _left_ him up there.”

“Did you confront your husband about this?”

“Yes, I did, I did as soon as he came home. And…I…it was like I was seeing someone else. He was so _angry_. He told me that he had needs, that he was going to get them met one way or the other, and if I was going to be a fairy lover, I might as well…that could be me up there, he didn’t care, he would…I could take his place, your client’s place, and I…” The widow presses her fist against her mouth. “I…I should have done something, something…but I was so scared, so terrified that it _would_ be me, if you could have just seen James’ face, he…so I just…I didn’t say anything again.”

She raises her miserable eyes and looks past Sam, looks past everyone, to gaze at Dean, like he’s the only person in the court room. “I am _so_ sorry, Dean, that I let…that I left you, and let him…” She sobs but tries to force out the rest of what she wants to say. “I…Dean, I can barely live with myself, knowing that…I should have helped you, if I had been a better person, or stronger…but I wasn’t, I wasn’t…please, please forgive me for…for everything …Dean, I’m sorry…”

The ultrasound tech in the jury box starts crying too, and the amount of sniffling in the court room, she isn’t the only one. Sam jumps as the judge bangs down his gavel, calling for order, and the prosecutor is asking for a recess. Sam’s legs feel numb and disjointed as he walks back to the defense table. But he stops a few feet away, once he sees Dean’s face.

Dean…badass extraordinaire, master of keeping emotions in check… _Dean_ , is crying. He’s pinching his chin between his thumb and forefinger, but that doesn’t hide the fact that he’s trembling, and there are tears coursing noiselessly down his face as he unflinchingly holds Mrs. Fitzhugh’s stare.

“Dean?” Sam whispers, but his voice is drowned out by the judge saying that they’re recessing until the afternoon, but the other man seems to hear him anyway, turning his head slightly in Sam’s direction. And then Sam is kneeling in front of him, even though Dean won’t meet his eyes. “Hey, hey, it’s okay, let it out.”

And then, completely unbidden, the man who hates being touched, who has flinched away every single time Sam has tried to reach out to him, rests his face against the hollow of Sam’s neck and sobs.

 


	26. xxvi.

**xxvi.**

Dean just wants to hide there, to crawl inside of Sammy’s skin and melt away, until there’s nothing left. He can feel the other man’s hand, tentative on his shoulder, and then sliding across his back, still hesitant, above the scars that Mistress had been talking about just a few minutes before.

Dean can count on one hand the number of people who have touched him gently in his lifetime – his mother, so long ago that it almost feels like a half-forgotten dream; Mistress, in the attic, spooning soup past his cracked lips; Lisa, after Master James was dead, when he’d told her that he would fix this; the nurse at the hospital, when she changed his bandages; and now Sammy, here in an open court room.

He’s embarrassed, above all – humiliated that he couldn’t keep this in, that he couldn’t push past the pain this time, that people can see. But to watch Mistress up there, talking about that day, when for the first time, someone other than a doctor or his Master or Master’s friends had seen him like that…and then remembering, his own secret horror, of what had happened when Master James had come home, how he had stormed into the attic the next night and dragged him to that bed and Dean, his eyes so swollen that he was effectively blind, not knowing where the next blow was coming from, and then…and then…

It _hurts_ , this clawing and biting animal that he’s tried to keep leashed in his gut for so long, and it wants out, raking its way to the surface, and Dean’s fingers dig into Sammy’s suit jacket, bunching the fabric in his fists, not letting him go. Dean can’t let him go, or he will _lose_ it.

Sammy’s rubbing his back, slow, big circles with his fingertips, and making little soothing noises in Dean’s ear. And Dean can remember, from years ago, how his mother used to do the same thing when he’d woken from a nightmare. She’d gather him up and rock him and he…he can see her face, just for a second, in his mind, beautiful, she’s _beautiful_ , long blonde hair and warm blue eyes that his heart instantly recognizes with a painful thump, even though Dean has been so sure for so long that he’s forgotten her face.

This had been her life, too, might still be; and yet she had loved him, had always been there in the night, when he was scared, until Dean had been sent away to be auctioned off to Master Michael, and he doesn’t want to forget that feeling again, those soft hands on his back, whispering her love against his ear, how it is to be warm and safe, in a bed of his own, with nothing real to fear.

And then she’s gone, and it’s Sammy again, and the loss of her, her features already fading into the murky depths of his memory, is almost too painful to bear.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, so another will be posted in a few minutes. :) And thanks for all the well wishes for Beth - she's doing great now!


	27. xxvii.

**xxvii.**

The prosecutor’s case runs long, until late Friday afternoon, and with some definite attempts at damage control after Mrs. Fitzhugh’s testimony; there’s no way to expunge it from the jurors’ memories, though, not even with the overload of facts and figures.

Sam’s grateful for two reasons: the first, of course, is that he has the weekend to go over everything again, with the jury fresh and ready to hear Dean’s side on Monday morning. And the second is that Sam watches the jury, watches their bored eyes glaze over, some of them occasionally glancing over at Dean, more interested in Sam’s client than the prosecutor’s words.

Sam’s spending a lot of time staring at Dean himself, from the corners of his eyes. Sam had expected…well, he’s not sure what. Something to change? Something to be different between them? He’d felt like there had been a connection between them for a minute, when he’d held Dean as the other man had cried, _something_.

But Dean’s still his same aloof self, like his breakdown had never happened at all, speaking only when Sam asks him a question. A defense mechanism? The new normal? Sam finds himself missing the old Dean, the one who was sarcastic to the bone, who’d been full of fire.

* * *

There are three voice mails waiting for him when Sam checks his cell phone later that night. He sets the bag of Chinese takeout down on his kitchen counter, eyes the set of chopsticks included inside, then admits defeat and pulls out a paper plate and a plastic fork. He doesn’t have the patience tonight to worry about his food slopping down the front of his shirt.

The first is from Anna, her voice cheerful and light in his ear. “Great news – that guard your client put into a coma? Henricks? A little birdie told me that he’s starting to wake up, moved his arms a little bit today and tried to pull out the vent tube. Looks like you only have to worry about the one murder charge, Sam.”

Great news, for sure. There might be an attempted murder charge filed later, definitely at least assault, but Dean’s dodged a bullet with the guard. Sam cracks open his fortune cookie first, even though he knows it’s probably bad luck or something, and feels good about it anyway. “The night life is for you,” it says, and Sam tosses the slip of paper down on the counter with a scoff. Right. Some fortune.

The second voice mail is from Mrs. Fitzhugh, who sounds distraught. “Sam, I…I know I shouldn’t call you again, that, but, well, please call me back. Please, as soon as you get this. Thank you.”

He stabs his fork into the pile of Chongqing chicken. Veronica has already called him twice this week, asking to speak to Dean, maybe get on his approved visitors list, but that’s impossible. They’re in the middle of a trial, and one of the prosecutor’s witnesses can’t just start visiting the defendant in jail, not now.

The third caller’s voice is warm and familiar, and Sam puts his fork down with a smile. “Hi Sweetie, it’s Mom. I know you’re probably really busy with your big case, but Dad and I just wanted to let you know that we’re thinking about you. Call us when you can. Love you, Sammy.”

And then Dad’s gruff voice in the background, “Call your mother, Sam. You know crazy how she gets if she doesn’t hear from you for a week.”

A muffled thwack – Mom swatting Dad’s arm, no doubt, Sam’s seen her do it a thousand times – and Dad rumbling laugh fills Sam’s ears for a second, before Mom hangs up the phone with an exasperated “John!”

He’s lucky, Sam realizes as he spears another piece of chicken and pops it into his mouth, so lucky. Two parents who love him, who hadn’t even batted an eye when Sam had come out at the age of seventeen; an apartment of his own, safe and warm; a refrigerator full of food; money in the bank. Sam has never known real hunger, never been touched by someone he didn’t desire. His smile fades away as he thinks about those video tapes; they’re never far away, always just beneath the surface of his conscious.

Normally, Sam would just delete the voice mail, call her on his way to the gym tomorrow morning. But he finds himself dialing the house number, even though it’s late, even though Mom’s probably curled up in bed with a book.

He needs to hear her voice, just for a minute.

* * *

The yellow squiggle that indicates a new voice mail is flashing when Sam hangs up; he’d heard the beep signaling an incoming call when he’d been talking to Mom, but Sam had doggedly ignored it, knowing it was probably Mrs. Fitzhugh again.

It’s her phone number in the log, but it’s not Veronica’s voice in the message; it’s Lisa, and when Sam punches the button to call her back, she’s crying before he can even ask her what’s wrong.

“Mr. Winchester,” she manages to gasp between sobs, “I can’t do this. I can’t do this anymore.”

Sam’s stomach plummets at her next words.

“I didn’t tell you the truth, when I talked to you, about what happened with Dean and Master.”

Lisa, his star, the first person he plans on calling to the stand on Monday, the closest thing he has to an eyewitness to what happened that night, on whose projected testimony he’s build most of his defense…

Lisa’s been lying to him this whole time.

The few bites of chicken Sam has eaten turn to lead in his stomach.

Shit.

_Shit_.

 


	28. xxviii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updating - life is really busy right now! Thanks to everyone who reads. <3

**xxviii.**

Lisa looks good up on the stand, healthy. She’s always been too skinny, squirreling away most of her food so Ben can have more, only eating after Ben says he’s full. She’d told Dean that, once, and a hazy memory of his own had surfaced, frayed at the edges, of his mother doing the same thing for him when he was Ben’s age.

And then Lisa’s eyes flick over to him, just for a second, and Dean makes himself look away and stare at his folded hands, avoiding her gaze just like he’s been avoiding the lawyer’s, afraid Sammy’s eyes will pin him in place and make Dean start to talk, to say things that he swore he’d never speak aloud.

“Miss Braeden,” the lawyer begins, and Dean glances up, puzzled. That name seems familiar to him, somehow, like he's heard it before, and yet he can't remember where.  Mistress' maiden name?  He isn't sure. “Will you please tell the court how you came to live at the Fitzhugh home?”

“I was…bought…by Mr. Fitzhugh eight years ago, to be his wife’s companion.”

It’s a very diplomatic way of saying that Mistress is as crazy as a bedbug and, at the time, couldn’t be left alone in a room for more than a few minutes without trying to slit her wrists with the nearest sharp object. But maybe she’s doing better, too; she sure didn’t act all that crazy when she’d testified last week, at least in Dean’s opinion.

“But you’re free now, correct?” Sammy hangs back, staying closer to the defense table than to the witness box.  Of course she's free now - only freed fae are allowed to testify in court, and then only for or against other fae.  

“Yes. Mrs. Fitzhugh freed me, as well as my son, a few months ago.” Her voice is quiet, but somehow fills the room. Dean’s not used to seeing her so…confident?

“And how did you meet my client for the first time?”

Dean digs his thumbnail into the palm of his hand, hard, until feels his skin give and a small drop of blood wells to the surface. He remembers that day all too well: Mistress bringing him downstairs after Master James had left on another business trip, Dean’s legs so shaky and cramped that he could barely walk.

“I went into Mistress’ parlor – I couldn’t find her – and there was a man lying on the floor, on a pile of blankets.” Her eyes narrow, as if the scene’s unfolding in front of her, if she squints. “He was asleep, and I – I screamed, I didn’t expect anyone to be there, except maybe Mistress.”

“What happened then?”

“Mistress came running in, and the man curled up into a ball, and I could see his face for the first time. He had a cut above his eye—” She touches her own face, her fingers just above her right brow, and Dean finds himself mimicking her, tracing the ridge of raised flesh still there, “—and his back had so many scars. He looked wild, like he was about to lash out and hit anyone close enough.” She draws in a deep breath. “Mistress told me that he belonged to Master. I had no idea that there was another…slave, that there was anyone else but me and Mistress and Master in the house.”

“Did Mrs. Fitzhugh tell you anything else about him?”

“Objection,” the prosecutor exclaims, and Dean startles a little, forgetting for a moment that there are other people in the room, that he’s in court. “Hearsay.”

“Not if Miss Braeden only repeats what Mrs. Fitzhugh told her, and not what Mrs. Fitzhugh said her husband said, your Honor.” Sammy’s lightning quick with his response, like a cat.

“Overruled,” the judge booms after a pause, “provided that you tread carefully, Mr. Winchester.”

Lisa looks at the judge, then back at Sammy, who gives her a small nod. “She said that we had to be kind to him, that his life was…very hard. And to never tell Master that he was down in the house, to never let Master know that I knew that Dea—that he existed at all.”

“Did you talk to my client, that first time?”

Lisa nibbles on her lower lip before shaking her head. “No, I…I didn’t. I was scared. If you disobeyed Master, he would…he would make you regret it, a lot. Mistress mostly took care of him, and I stayed away. And before Master came back from his trip, Mistress took Dean – I mean, your client – away again. I didn’t know where then.”

“Did you see my client often?”

“No, no, not a lot. Once a month, if that, when Master was gone. Sometimes, even when Master was away, he didn’t come downstairs, when Mistress said he was really bad.” Lisa frowns, and Dean presses his thumbnail into the crescent-shaped wound, rewarded with another drop of blood for his efforts.

“When did you learn what it meant, ‘when he was really bad?’” Sam takes a few steps toward the stand, blocking Lisa from Dean’s view, and he’s at once grateful, that he doesn’t have to watch her tell people about _this_.

“It took me a few years – I was pregnant with my son, so maybe six years ago – when Mistress asked me to come upstairs with her, after Master had left. I didn’t even know where Dean was kept until then, really. I didn’t want to know.” Lisa pauses for a moment, and then there’s a clink of a glass against wood, like she’d just taken a sip of water. “There was this room, with a bed in it, and Dean—” She makes a choking sound. “Dean, he, he…I can’t…”

“It’s all right, Miss Braeden, take your time.” Sammy’s voice is all soft and concerned, and Dean pushes his thumbnail deeper, twisting it, the pain warm and familiar, somehow calming. And then Lisa is talking again, but Dean concentrates on the feel of his nail tearing at the ragged edges of the wound, pushing out her words, focusing on the burn, the sting, the blood.

He doesn’t need her to help him remember, how he’d been chained in that horrible little closet, after one of Master James’ parties, his chest and face and back splattered with dried come, every muscle in his body aching from sucking off six guys and taking another nine up the ass the night before. And then Mistress was covering him with a blanket, her voice shaking as she whispered an apology, that she couldn’t bathe him because Master would know, he would _know_ , and Lisa standing behind her, horror twisting her face into something ugly and scared.

And…and…this isn’t part of the story, and Dean stops digging into his palm. Lisa wasn’t supposed to know about the parties, that’s what they agreed on while waiting for the police to come, that’s what they’d all said, he and Mistress and Lisa had all agreed that Lisa didn’t know, that Mistress knew but Lisa didn’t, and his guts threaten to tumble and heave, because if she’s talking about this…

He glares a hole in Sammy’s back, hopes the lawyer can feel it, because he’s gotten to Lisa somehow, he’s made her tell, and…and the lawyer is going to fuck up everything if he doesn’t watch it.

 


	29. xxix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while since I've updated - we have been super busy this holiday season!

**xxix.**

“Lisa, don’t.”

Dean’s voice is soft, unexpectedly so, but it carries in the quiet of the court room. There’s a nervous rustle in the gallery, and Sam’s next question for Lisa dies in his throat as the jurors’ eyes all swing towards his client.

“I have to tell the truth—”

But Dean doesn’t appear to even hear her; he just talks over her words, drowning them out with his own. “Lisa, please, don’t do this.” His plea is more forceful now, tinged with unmistakable desperation. “I’m already dead, but you—”

And then the judge brings down his gavel, and Dean flinches at the unexpected noise. “Mr. Winchester, control your client. Miss Braeden, you will only speak to answer the questions asked of you by the prosecutor, the defense, or myself. Are we clear?”

“Dean,” Sam murmurs, stalking back to the defense table. “Calm down.”

And then those green eyes are fixed on him, filled with rage and…fear? “Don’t fucking tell me to calm down,” Dean hisses, low enough – thank goodness – that Sam can barely hear him, hopefully low enough that the jury can’t. “What in the fuck are you doing?”

Sam blows out an exasperated breath. “Trying to save your life. What does it look like?”

“What does it _look_ like? It looks like you fucking want two people in the electric—”

The judge bangs the gavel again, and Dean tenses at the sound, his hushed tirade coming to an abrupt halt. “Mr. Winchester, I asked you to control your client once already. I _won’t_ ask again.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Sam glances over at Dean and can see the mutiny building in his eyes; it won’t take much for him to lose it, and very publicly. “Your Honor, I request a short recess so I can discuss this witness’ forthcoming testimony with my client.”

The prosecutor lets out a dramatic sigh, but the judge grants Sam’s motion before she can give voice to her objection.

“Fifteen minutes,” the judge warns, “and one more outburst from your client will result in his removal from the court.”

As soon as the judge vacates the bench, Sam hustles Dean into an adjacent conference room and firmly closes the door behind them, not caring if Dean’s ever-present guards are trailing them or not. “What in the—”

“What did you do to Lisa?” Dean practically snarls out the accusation. “This isn’t how it was supposed to go down. We all agreed what the story would be, and you’re fucking everything up. You’re going to get her _killed_.”

“I didn’t do _anything_ to her. She was the one who called me Friday night and told me everything. You know, all of the stuff that you conveniently forgot to tell me, your lawyer?” Sam snaps right back at him, finally losing the hard-fought battle with his temper. “She couldn’t let you take all of the blame for what happened anymore, Dean, even though you seem bound and determined to do it.”

“If she says the truth up there, she’s dead. _Dead_ , Sammy, just like me.” Dean stabs his thumb into his palm, then brings it up to his mouth.

“Jesus, stop that. You’re bleeding.” Sam reaches into his pocket for his handkerchief and shoves it into Dean’s hand.

Dean stares down at it for a second, looking confused, like he’s not sure what to do with the square of linen. Sam feels the edge of his anger softening, just a little, as he folds Dean’s fingers around the cloth to hold it in place.

“If you let her…” Dean clears his throat before meeting Sam’s gaze. “You know what’s going to happen.”

“I can’t stop her.” Sam doesn’t even realize that he’s still holding the other man’s hand until Dean pulls away, visibly retreating into himself.

“You mean you won’t.”

“That too.” Sam draws in a deep breath. “Dean, this martyr shit is noble, but it’s going to get you killed. You know that, right?”

“So? Who the fuck cares, Sammy?” Dean takes a few steps back, until he’s pressed against the wall. “I’m fucked up, okay? I’m so fucked up that I don’t even know what normal is, and I’m never not going to be fucked up. It’s too late for me. I know that.” He rubs his injured hand, twisting his thumb into his covered wound. “But Lisa? Ben? They can still have that normal, apple pie kind of life – maybe even Mistress, too. But only if what happened is my fault – _all_ my fault. So just let me do this, okay?”

“I can’t, Dean.”

“Afraid I’ll fuck up your win-loss record?” Dean glares at him, his eyes narrowed and furious, his chest heaving.

“I don’t give a shit about that.” Sam can feel a migraine threatening to rear its ugly head, tries to push it back down. “You want to know who cares, Dean? Veronica cares. Lisa cares. _I_ care, too damned much to just let you throw your life away like it doesn’t mean jack, Dean. It does matter. _You_ matter.”

There’s a knock at the door, signaling that the fifteen minute recess is already over, far too short, leaving far too little resolved.

“Fuck you, Sammy. I never asked you to care,” Dean mutters before pushing past him.

 

* * *

 

“What happened on the day of Mr. Fitzhugh’s death?” Sam asks, attempting to keep his voice calm and pleasant, even though a bloom of pain is threatening to blind him – the migraine, or maybe Dean glaring daggers into his back.

“Mistress took Dean back upstairs in the morning. Master wasn’t due back until late evening, but she was always very careful about taking him back up several hours before Master arrived. Ben was at the kitchen table, coloring, and I was making lunch.” Lisa’s dark eyes glitter. “But Master came back early, around two in the afternoon. I always tried to keep Ben out of his sight as much as possible, so as soon as I heard the door slam, I told my son to get his crayons and coloring book and hide in our room, before Master saw him.”

“And then what happened, Miss Braeden?” Sam massages his thumb against his right temple for a second.

“Ben dropped one of his crayons on the floor. I didn’t realize it until Master stormed in and stepped on it.” Lisa twists her hands in her lap. “He was so angry.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that Ben was a nuisance and always in the way and costing him money, and it was time that he – Master – sold him to someone who could keep him under control.” Lisa swallows hard, her chin trembling with barely-restrained emotion.

“What did you say then?”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t say anything. I was just in shock. He went upstairs, to the attic, and I ran to my room, and just held Ben and cried.” Lisa swipes at her cheek with the back of her hand, and Sam leans forward to offer her a box of tissues. “I couldn’t let him take my baby away from me.”

“So what was your plan?”

“I didn’t have a plan.” Lisa sniffles a little, dabbing her face with a tissue. “I just…I just wanted to talk to him, you know? Beg him to not sell Ben. I’d do anything, _anything_. I waited for him to come back downstairs, but he didn’t, for hours. So…so…I decided to go upstairs, to talk to him.”

“And what did you see, once you were in the attic?”

“I…I…” Lisa’s eyes skitter nervously over towards the defense table for a second, before snapping back to look at Sam. “I saw Dean…on the bed, on all fours, with…a gag in his mouth, and…and Master was behind him, and…and Dean’s back was…it was all torn up, like he’d been beaten…with a belt? He was bleeding, and…and he saw me, he…he looked at me, but Master…Master didn’t see me, he…he…all I could think of was that this would be Ben, that someone would be doing this to _my son_ …and…and I…I picked up the fire…the fire poker and I…I…I did it, I hit…I hit Master with it.”

“You hit Mr. Fitzhugh with the fire poker.”

“Yes…yes, I did.”

“And then what happened?”

“Master…I didn’t hit him hard, just enough to daze him, I think? He shoved Dean off the bed and…and he jumped at me, and…and I dropped the poker, on the floor, and…Master put…Master put his hands around my throat and he just squeezed so hard, so hard, I couldn’t breathe, and…and he said that he was going to kill me, but first he would ‘break in’ Ben in front of me, and then make Ben watch as he shoved the poker up…up inside me, until it came out…of my mouth. Then he let me go, pushed me on the floor…got on top of me, started pull…pulling up my skirt…I said he couldn’t hurt Ben, he was Ben’s father, but…but Master…he didn’t care, he never cared, he said that Ben was just a fucking fairy like the rest of…the rest of us, and that meant…he could do whatever he wanted.” Lisa chokes back a sob. “And then there…was just screaming.”

“What did you see?”

“It…it happened so fast, but…I saw Dean, pulling Master away from…from me, and he was screaming, he was screaming…at Master and saying that he wouldn’t hurt Ben, that…that he’d kill him first, before he let Master hurt Ben like that. And Master just…laughed, and said ‘what, _let me_ , like you let me stick my dick in your ass, you little fairy fag?’ or something like that. And…he shoved Dean against the wall, and…punched him, hard, and I…I picked up the poker again, and…I hit Master again, harder this time. He fell down, and I…I was screaming and crying, too, and I must have dropped the poker, because…because Dean had it, and he was screaming, so loud, it wasn’t even…words, just sounds, like howling…and he just…hit him, over and over. But Master…he was still alive, and when Dean…he threw down the poker, and Master…Master laughed at him, and said he would kill us both, after he…after he raped Ben in front of us…and Dean…Dean just wrapped his hands around Master’s throat and told him to shut up, to _shut up_ , and…and he did.”

Sam scans the juror box; most of them look empathetic or upset or plain disgusted. “And then?”

“He was…Master was dead. And Dean just…he lost it. He lost it, just…sobbing uncontrollably, for a long time. I tried…to hug him, you know? I don’t…but he pushed me away and just…bit his arm and screamed, like…like a wounded animal. Mistress must have heard, because she…she came upstairs, and she…she just fell on her knees, and started crying, and saying ‘thank god, thank god, he’s dead,’ and she…managed to calm Dean down a little. She told him to run, but Dean…he wouldn’t.”

“What did my client do instead?”

“He asked Mistress to free me and Ben, and she said that she would. And then he told me to take off all of my clothes, because they had blood….on them, and to burn them, those and the tapes of…the parties. And then to go downstairs, and…call the cops, and let them come and arrest him. He said…that he’d take all of the blame, because otherwise…they’d arrest me, too, and Ben…Ben needed his mother. He said to play dumb, to pretend that I didn’t know about…the parties, and what…what happened in the attic. And I said I would, but…” Lisa focuses on the defense table again, her eyes red and swollen. “But I couldn’t let Dean take all of the blame, because…because it was my fault, too. I had to tell the truth, Dean, I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry that I even....that I could even think of letting you take all the blame...it was wrong, all of it was wrong, and I am so sorry that I didn't help you.  I _never_ helped you, and that was wrong.  I'm so sorry, Dean, please, forgive me.”

The room is so quiet that, literally, one could hear a pin drop.

 


	30. xxx.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that I haven't updated for a while (like...months). I won't ever abandon this story, but I have a lot of things going on right now "in real life" and I need to focus on them. 1) I just kind of needed an internet break for a while. 2) My wife and I bought a house!! 3) My wife and I are pregnant again, yay! The baby is due in mid-December and my "morning sickness" (actually all day sickness, blech) is almost gone finally. :) We don't care what we have as long as he or she is healthy, but I have a gut feeling this time it is a girl. :) 4) I sold my second novel and have been writing a third! So that is taking nearly all of my writing time up, unfortunately. And 5) I am working on becoming an official Canadian citizen! :) Ohio will always be "home" to me, but I can't see myself ever living there again, especially now.

**xxx.**

_Words are good, but pictures are better._

Yet another often-repeated law school maxim that is proving to be true in the real world. The witnesses for Dean have been few but powerful – Mrs. Fitzhugh’s breakdown, Lisa’s confession on the stand, and the doctor’s description of the injuries Dean had sustained over his life – but, in the end, Sam is sure that it’s all going to come down to the tapes.

Sam is unspeakably glad that he doesn’t have to watch them again. The judge has granted Sam’s request to clear the courtroom for the viewing; Dean is already on his way back to jail, the observers and reporters have all been escorted into the hallway, and the jurors are being shepherded back into the judge’s personal chambers.

He’d wanted to show them all, to force the jury watch every single second of the tapes, to swoop down afterwards with condemnation. “We’ve done this,” he’s desperate to say, “with our silence, pretending that when little kids are being sold to grown men that they’re being cared for, or that they’re not human, that it doesn’t really matter. And all the while, behind closed doors, _this_ has been happening, and you can’t walk out of here today and ignore that fact any longer.”

But that’s not what is going to happen today. The prosecutor has, in vain, tried to argue that admitting the tapes into evidence would put the “victim,” Fitzhugh, on trial. In an effort to broker a compromise, the judge has given Sam only the afternoon for the videos. And, so, the jurors are going to see five carefully-selected scenes, personally chosen by Sam, five graphic snapshots of Dean’s “life” for the past fifteen years.

They’re going to see a fourteen year old boy, small for his age and unable to disguise the fear in his eyes, being brutally raped by Fitzhugh for the first time. They’re going to watch that same boy being passed amongst six grown men during his first “party,” the men obviously drunk and humiliating Dean at every opportunity. They’re going to witness that boy growing up, being tortured and beaten and tattooed against his will and starved and repeatedly raped, bleeding and screaming and whimpering and crying and passing out from the pain.

And if they can see all of that and still find Dean guilty of murder, then Sam is going to lose all faith in humanity.

* * *

 

Sam visits Dean in jail that night. He has to; even though he wasn’t in the judge’s chambers this afternoon, the tapes’ contents have been invading his subconscious, snippets worming their way into his thoughts, until that’s all he can think about. He just needs to look at Dean, to remind himself that the man is okay, that all of that is in the past, that he’s survived, that Fitzhugh is dead and no one is going to do anything like that to Dean again if Sam has anything to say about it.

Dean’s hair is damp and slicked back when he enters the visiting room; fresh from a shower, it looks like. “Gotta do this at night now, since I have to leave so early for court,” he says, sliding into the chair across from Sam, apparently noticing his scrutiny.

Sam gives him a tight smile, or at least something that he hopes passes for one. “How are you doing?”

Dean looks puzzled, his eyebrows drawing together before he answers. “I’m okay.”

“Good.” Sam just sits there, watching Dean, his eyes darting over the faint scar on Dean’s forehead, seeing in his mind the other ones that are hidden beneath the baggy jail-issued uniform.

“You okay? You look a little jumpy.”

Sam shrugs, doesn’t know exactly what to say.

“Hey, I know that I’ve been a little crazy lately myself.” Dean rests his palms against the table separating them, staring down at his splayed fingers. “It’s all this shit, you know, with Lisa and…it’s just a lot.”

“They haven’t filed any charges against her yet,” Sam replies, glad to have something to offer to this stilted conversation at last. “I don’t think they will.”

Dean huffs a little and still doesn’t meet Sam’s gaze. “Good. She’s been through enough.”

“So have you.” Sam slides his hand forward, resting it on top of Dean’s. He can see a muscle twitching like mad in Dean’s cheek, but the other man doesn’t pull away, and so Sam gives his fingers a small squeeze.

“Dean…” Sam wants to say the right thing, to not break this fragile truce between them once more, but he doesn’t know what it is. He makes his living with words, and yet this man sitting across from him somehow has the ability to render him speechless on a regular basis, for no discernible reason.

“Kind of late for a visit, isn’t it, Sammy?” Dean finally looks at him, his green eyes wary, like he’s expecting something bad to happen.

“Yeah, I just…” Sam swallows hard, the images that he’s been trying to keep at bay all afternoon flashing in front of him, and he tightens his grip on Dean’s hand. “I just wanted to make sure that you’re okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Sam shakes his head, amazed that Dean somehow manages to get up in the morning, to live whatever life he can, and not completely lose it, just lose all ability to stay sane. He just can’t comprehend it, probably never will be able to, because if Sam had had to endure just a fraction of what Dean has, he isn't so sure that he'd be able to will himself to even function.

“You’re kind of weird, you know that, Sammy?” Dean slides his hand out from underneath Sam’s, but he keeps it close, their fingertips almost touching. “I don’t understand you.”

“That’s funny,” Sam replies, releasing the breath of air he’s been holding inside. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

One corner of Dean’s mouth twitches upward. “No shit. That make us psychic?”

“Nah. Psycho, maybe.”

“Yeah, that’s probably closer to the mark,” Dean snorts. “You, especially, Sammy. You keep coming back here, wanting to be my friend or some other crazy shit. No offense, but you need to get yourself a hobby, dude. Get out more.”

“Yeah, maybe. I’m kind of busy trying to save some guy’s life right now, though, even though the jerk’s bound and determined to make me work for it.”

“Hmph. You just won’t let me roll over and die, will you?”

“Nope.”

“Bitch.” Dean’s giving him that ghost of a smile, the one that always seems to Sam on the verge of blooming into a real grin at any moment, although it never does.

And then Sam’s laughing to himself; he can’t help it. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, or the fact that he’s been running on caffeine and fumes for weeks, or the stress of the trial. Or maybe it’s the fact that no one has called him a bitch since junior high school. Whatever the reason, it’s beyond hilarious, and Sam can’t hold back.

Even more surprising, Dean starts laughing too.

 

 


	31. xxxi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapter update! :) And I've been writing like mad this weekend, thanks to my lovely wife who gave me a "me" weekend where she took care of all the chores/cooking/child-wrangling/etc, so I will hopefully have more updates in the near future!

**xxxi.**

It’s surprisingly easy for Dean to zone out when someone’s calling for his death. He figures that it’s because death has never seemed all that bad; hell, back in the attic, he’d prayed for it often enough, until Dean had finally realized that if there was a god, he sure as shit didn’t give a fuck about answering fae prayers.

If the jury comes back with a death sentence, well, Dean couldn’t really care less. Dean thinks that death will be like one long nap, a blissful emptiness without thoughts, without memories, without fear or pain. And that, really, doesn’t sound like a horrible thing to him.

Dean glances over at the man sitting beside him. The lawyer looks terrible, like he hasn’t slept in weeks, with dark circles under his eyes and his skin all waxy and pale. Dean still can’t understand the dude, why the guy’s driving himself into the ground to save his life. It doesn’t make any sense to him.

It’s not like there’s something out there for Dean. Even if he does beat the chair, what’s in his future? A lifetime of prison, of being locked away in protective custody to keep other guys off his back? That doesn’t exactly sound appealing. And even if he somehow beats the rap entirely, miracle of miracles, then what? Sure, Mistress will probably free him, but what good would that do? Dean can’t live in that house, beneath that attic, cringing every time the floorboards creak. But leaving won’t work out, either; what could he possibly do to earn money? He doesn’t have any skills, can’t even read or write his own name. He’ll eventually end up under some bridge, selling his body to survive, and Dean would rather starve than let another guy fuck him.

Sammy sure doesn’t want to see it, but it will be the best for everyone if the jury convicts Dean and sentences him to death. Then everything will be over and done, and Dean can just stop. Part of him died when he was six, when Master Michael ripped him open that first night. It’s high time that the rest of his body catches up.

The prosecutor stops yammering at the jurors, and Sammy gives Dean a brief smile before rising to take his turn. Dean doesn’t pay much attention to Sammy’s words, either; he knows that he probably should, but he just doesn’t care. No matter what the outcome of this dog and pony show, there’s not going to be a happy ending to Dean’s life, and he knows it. Why waste the energy pretending that there can be something better waiting out there for him?

He wonders how Sammy will take it, if the lawyer will blame himself, if he’ll feel like a failure. Dean hopes he doesn’t. He’ll tell Sammy that, before the end comes, that this is what he wants. What he’s always wanted. Just to close his eyes and sleep. Forget. Let go. Let it all go, let it all just drift away, until there’s nothing left. Nothing good, nothing bad, just…nothing.

Nothing is about the best Dean can get, and he’ll take it.

 


	32. xxxii.

**xxxii.**

Sam stares at the ceiling of his studio apartment, which doesn’t seem so crappy to him anymore, after walking through the attic where Dean had spent over a decade of his life. It’s late, or really early, or...whatever. He’s so disoriented from lack of sleep that Sam doesn’t even know what day it is, only that his clock says it is 2:14am, and his cell phone is silent.

Of course it’s silent; the court isn’t going to call him at two in the morning to say that the jury has reached its verdict. The jurors are all tucked into their hotel rooms, sequestered and sleeping, dreaming and not deliberating. Sam hopes, peevishly, that they’re all having nightmares about what had happened to Dean on those video tapes.

_Let them see what I see_ , Sam says silently to himself. It’s not exactly a prayer; Sam wants to believe in god, but his faith is shaky at best, and it’s being sorely tested by this trial. But he’d like to think that someone is up there, watching, listening, maybe even caring.

Although, Sam supposes, that would mean that god had watched and listened to Dean being raped repeatedly and hadn’t cared enough to lift a damned finger to stop it.

Fuck, he’s tired, exhausted in a way that he’s never been before, like Sam has wrung every drop of life out of himself to save Dean’s, and now there’s nothing left. He’s never given himself like this to another client, but Dean’s different. All Sam can think about is Dean being strapped into the electric chair, his head shaven and his green eyes blank and soon to be lifeless, and how Sam will give anything to not to have to see that enacted in real life.

He wants to see Dean smile again. He wants to hear Dean laughing. He wants, for some reason, to just get in his car with Dean and drive until they hit the ocean, to watch Dean as he wades into the water and smells the salt on the breeze for the first time.

There’s so much more to life than what Dean has been shown, and Sam wants to make sure that he experiences all of it – scarfing down elephant ears at the fair, building snowmen, sipping hot chocolate in front of a fire, watching the fireworks over the lake on the fourth of July, singing along to the radio during a road trip, sleeping in on Sunday mornings…

Sam punches his pillow and flips onto his side and waits for the call that will signal that those things can be in Dean’s future.

 


	33. xxxiii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have enough material to update once a week for almost three months now, so that's exactly what I plan on doing! :) It'll probably usually be the weekends, but since we're going out of town this one, I'll post tonight. :)

**xxxiii.**

It takes nine days for Sam’s cell phone to ring. Well, that’s not exactly true; Anna calls once, and his mom calls a few times, as do several long-neglected and long-suffering friends. But the call that Sam’s been waiting for, the one that’s been keeping him up at night and distracted during the day, doesn’t come for nine days.

It’s short and to the point, the clerk only informing Sam that he needs to appear at court at 1:30 that afternoon, but it’s enough to set Sam’s teeth on edge and send his stomach into a roiling fit.

_This is it_. That’s all he can think of as he jumps into the shower, as he shaves, as he combs his hair into something resembling order, as he pulls his only clean suit from its dry cleaning bag. This is when they’re going to set Dean free.

Sam can’t let himself consider the alternative.

 

* * *

He knows as soon as the jurors file into the court room that something’s not right. They won’t meet his eyes as they stand in front of their chairs, won’t look anywhere but down.

That is almost never a good sign.

Sam’s throat knots up as the judge sits and asks everyone else to do so, and he reaches for his glass of water, tries to choke some of it down and mostly failing. Dean appears to be oblivious, his green eyes devoid of all emotion as he calmly stares at the twelve people who are in charge of deciding his fate.

Or maybe he already knows; maybe Dean has always known, and that’s why he’s never fought for himself, has always been at odds with his own lawyer and his own defense.

But this isn’t the end; Sam isn’t going to let it be. He’s already started drafting Dean's appeal, and his first bullet point is a grossly incompetent defense. Dean should have never been assigned a public defender still wet behind his ears; Sam should have reached out, should have garnered more public support for his client, should have approached more experienced lawyers for advice. He’ll gladly sabotage his own career if he has to, without an ounce of regret, if it’ll give Dean another chance at freedom.

When the judge asks for the jury foreman to speak, it’s as if the entire court room has drawn in a breath, waiting in anticipation.

“We, the jury, find ourselves hopelessly deadlocked…”

Sam exhales in relief. It’s not the verdict he’s been hoping for, but it’s not the one he’s been dreading, either. Sure, he’ll have to start over from scratch, prepare for a whole new trial, but there will be another chance, another opportunity for Dean. The road doesn’t end here; it’s still wide open, the two forks looming ahead in the distance, both untraveled.

It could be so much worse.

“I request for the jury to be individually polled,” the prosecutor states, her voice loud over the murmurs rustling through the spectators.

And Sam feels tears prick at the back of his heavy eyelids as the jurors each stand up and state what they believe the verdict should be. Ten say “not guilty.” Only two disagree.

Ten out of twelve think that Dean should walk out of the court, free and clear. It’s mindboggling. No fae accused of murdering his or her master has ever been acquitted, and yet here are ten people saying that Dean should be.

Next time, Sam will do everything in his power to make sure that it’s twelve.

 


	34. xxxiv.

**xxxiv.**

The lawyer comes to visit the next day, looking a lot more alive than Dean’s seen him in weeks. “You get some sleep last night?” he asks, sliding into the chair across from Sammy and stretching his legs out beneath the table.

“Yeah, a little.” Sammy smiles as the guard locks the door to the visiting area behind them. “Okay, maybe a lot. Sixteen hours, actually.”

“That sounds more like a coma.” Dean’s never slept that long in his life; he grabs a few hours here and there, strings together four in a row if he’s lucky. He hasn’t been lucky in a long while.

Sammy just grins like an idiot. “Got a message from CUFF this morning, when I was dead to the world. They’re interested in your case. I talked to one of the senior members today, and he said that he was drafting an amicus brief for your retrial. That’s big. _Huge_.”

Dean stares at the lawyer blankly. “Can you repeat that in English?”

“CUFF. You know, The Coalition for Universal Fae Freedom?” Sammy’s eyebrows bunch together when Dean shrugs. “You’ve never heard of CUFF? Seriously?”

“Nope. There’s this group out there that believes that fae should be free?”

“More than believes. They’re based out of Boston, but they’re working towards abolishing slavery – they draft legislation, lobby Congressmen, run ads, publish articles, conduct studies. They’re not very big, but this – this is going to explode soon, you’ll see.” The lawyer pushes his hair out of his eyes. “I called them before your first trial, but they’re strapped for resources, and they can’t get involved in every case. But now they’re interested. Very interested.”

“And…?” Dean’s mind is boggling over the fact that there’s actually an organization that gives a shit about the fae at all.

“And? And that means more resources. More manpower. More money. And maybe some national exposure, which sure can’t hurt. Your first trial was small potatoes, Dean. You were just some nameless slave accused of killing his master. But now?” Sammy huffs out an agitated breath and runs his hands through his hair again, forcing it behind his ears. “Look, the DA’s coming up for reelection next year, and he can’t lose this case. He’s going to be prosecuting you, personally, at the next go-round. And the news is finally sniffing around – I'm trying to get an interview set up with the local NBC affiliate. This is going to be a lot different, and we need everyone on our side that we can get.”

“That’s…really weird.” Dean can’t wrap his brain around all of it; he’s still struggling to process the bit about CUFF. Interviews? National exposure? Why?

“Yeah, it kind of is.” The lawyer leans closer, like he’s about to tell Dean a secret. “Dean, we need to talk.” Sammy rests his hand on Dean’s forearm, and Dean desperately fights against the urge to freak out, from shoving the lawyer away. He can still feel Master James' hand on his arm, just like that, and then he’d slide it up and hook around his elbow and pull him and…

_No_.

Dean makes himself look at Sammy’s eyes. Sammy, who is fighting like a mama bear for a wayward cub. Sammy. Not Master James or any of his "friends." Not Master Michael, either. _Sammy_.

“Okay.” Dean tries to relax, tries to tamp down the urge to fight, or run, or maybe both.

“Look, the first trial was crazy. Literally crazy. That was practice, and this is the real deal. I need to know that you’re telling me the truth now, all of it. No more secrets, okay? No more surprise confessions on the stand, or finding out the night before opening statements that my whole case is built on a lie, or something like that, okay?” The lawyer squeezes his arm, lightly, not enough to leave a mark, but Dean flinches anyway.

“I’m pretty sure you know everything there is to know about me, Sammy.” Can the lawyer feel how Dean’s heart is speeding up, how he’s breaking into a cold sweat? It’s so fucking stupid; Dean hates this, how Master James is dead and Master Michael is long in his past, and yet they’re both still here, still affecting everything he does. He draws in a deep breath and wills himself to relax.

Sammy laughs and lets Dean’s arm go. “No I don’t, Dean. I barely know anything about you.”

Dean scratches his head, confused. The lawyer’s seen everything on the tapes, and that’s about as personal as it gets. “What else is there to know?”

“Almost everything?” Sammy leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing, but thoughtfully, not like he’s pissed. “Like when were you born?”

“I don’t know.” Dean folds his hands into fists and stares down at them. “My mom said that I was born in January, but I don’t know the exact day or anything like that.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“You can have a favorite color?”

Sammy snorts, like he’s just cracked a joke, even though Dean has genuinely never given a thought to preferring one color over another. Dean lifts one shoulder. “I don’t know. Blue, maybe? Like the sky.  What’s yours?”

“Green.”

“That’s a nice color.” Hell, they’re all nice colors, as far as Dean is concerned, and this conversation is…weird. But he glances up at Sammy, and the lawyer’s looking all pleased with himself, like this means something, so Dean just lets him have his moment and keeps his smart mouth in check, at least for now.

_You have such a sweet little mouth, just_ made _for sucking cock._

Dean rubs the back of his head and tries to push the memory away, tries to stay in the moment with Sammy, but it’s hard. Sometimes his mind just starts connecting crazy dots – like in Ben’s coloring books, except it’s a word here, a smell there – and the next thing Dean knows, the stuff bouncing around in his head is just too much to handle, and he loses it.

But not this time. Not with Sammy, not again. He’s going to sit here and answer the lawyer’s silly questions, because…well, Dean’s not sure why, except that he likes Sammy hanging around.

Sometimes.

“What are you thinking about?” The lawyer’s voice is soft, concerned.

Of course he asks the one question that Dean doesn’t want to answer. Of course he does.

Dean’s shoulder starts twitching all of the sudden, and he hesitantly touches it, remembering how Master James used to like to bite him there, right at the meat of his muscle, where it joins the base of his neck. “Stuff,” he says, grinding his palm into the scars, attempting to chase away the phantom pain.

“You want to talk about it?” The lawyer’s fingers edge toward his, but Sammy’s cautious, doesn’t completely breach the distance separating them. He’s a quick learner.

Dean can feel Sammy’s eyes on him. He’s had a lot of eyes on him in his lifetime – a lot of hands, too. But the lawyer is different.

“Dean? Are you okay?”

He forces himself to nod, even though he’s not okay and never will be. Dean is fucked up beyond repair.

Unless…unless he’s not?

Because Sammy sure doesn’t look at him that way. Sammy’s watched every second of those tapes, has seen _everything_ , and he’s still hanging around, still plugging away at his case, like Dean is worth saving. And the lawyer wouldn’t do that unless he believed it, right? And those other people – those CUFF guys, and even Mistress and Lisa, all wanting to help him. Why would they do that, waste their time like that, if he’s a lost cause?

For decades, all Dean has been is some subhuman piece of shit to be used and abused and, later, thrown away. Expendable. Replaceable. A fuckhole, like Master James used to call him – just an ass, just a mouth.

But what if he can be more than that? What if he _is_ more than that?

Master James was a bastard – a hateful, sadistic bastard who had been willing to sell his own son, just because he could. Someone who had kept Dean locked up in an attic for years, forcing him to do all sorts of perverted and horrible and painful shit. Why does Master James get any say in Dean’s worth? Why is Dean still listening to him?

Why not listen to Sammy instead?

_I care._

_I want to be here for you._

_I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me to go._

_You matter._

_You matter._

It’s like something inside of Dean’s chest splinters, cracks open just a little, and it hurts at first, but it’s a good kind of hurt. He matters. Ten strangers on that jury looked at him and decided that he’s worth sparing. Sammy thinks Dean is worth going without sleep or food or a life, really, just to try to save him.

“Dean, say something. You’re scaring me here.” And the lawyer does sound a little jumpy, ducking his head, trying to meet Dean’s eyes.

“I don’t think that I want to die, Sammy.”

Dean isn’t quite sure who is more surprised by his declaration, but he realizes that it’s true. For the first time in nearly forever, he doesn’t want to die. All this time, he’s thought that an apple pie kind of life is something for other people, not for him. But maybe…maybe he can dream big. Maybe he can have it. Maybe he can have friends and a dog and a car and learn to read and get a real job and, maybe, have someone look at him like Sammy's looking at him right now, like he's worth something, and maybe, _maybe_ , even have his first kiss, hold hands with someone and learn how to play softball and…live. Just feel the sunshine on his bare shoulders. Learn how to be happy.

“You’re not going to die. I’m not going to let you.” And the lawyer says it with so much conviction that Dean almost believes him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to thank everyone who leaves kudos or a review. :) I really want to respond to each review someday!


	35. xxxv.

**xxxv.**

“I don’t think so, Sammy.”

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. In spite of Dean’s unexpected declaration that he doesn’t want to die – or, at least, he doesn’t _think_ he does – getting Dean to assist in his second defense is almost as difficult as it was the first time around, and Sam doesn’t understand the other man’s hesitance. “Dean, seriously, it’s only a phone interview with one of the lawyers at CUFF. He’s just going to ask you a few questions. Here, I even have some of them written down for you, to give you an idea.”

Dean barely spares a glance at the piece of paper that Sam slides across the table. “I know what they’re going to ask about, Sammy. They just want the gory details like everyone else, and I’m not doing it.” Dean runs a hand through his hair, making some of it stick straight on end. “Do you know how…how _hard_ it is, knowing that you’ve seen all of that shit on the tapes? That total strangers saw it, too? And now you want me to talk to some _other_ stranger about everything those sick fucks did, so I can be a sound bite on the news so a million other strangers can hear about it?”

Sam holds his hands up in supplication when Dean’s lips thin into a mutinous scowl. “All I’m trying to do is help you, and if we get a sympathetic public—”

“You’re not _helping_ me, Sammy. You’re putting a target on my back.” Dean’s eyes dart toward the door, where two guards are milling around, appearing bored and uninterested in their conversation, before lowering his voice. “Most of the guys here know I’m facing a murder rap, but not the details. If those get out, even with me being in protective custody…it’s not going to be pretty. Do you understand _that_?” The other man shoots a hard look in Sam’s direction.

Sam’s throat constricts painfully. The thought of Dean being raped _again_ is unbearable; Sam’s done all of the legal maneuvering he can to keep his client safe, but ultimately, he’s powerless to protect Dean any more than he already has.

It’s not like Dean can’t defend himself, to a point; Dean’s built – he’s packed on some serious muscle in the past several weeks, his broad shoulders testifying to the fact that he makes the most of the jail’s weight room – and Sam would pick him in any one-on-one fight. Maybe two-on-one, or even three-on-one. But get a pack on him, and there’s only so much one guy can do, even Dean.

It’s already happened once before.

“Look, if you'll do the interview, I’ll tell him that some of the details are off limits.” Sam taps one finger against the corner of his mouth. “We’ll just let him say that you were routinely beaten and starved, nothing more specific than that. Will that work?”

“I guess.” Dean’s shoulders seem to relax a bit, although he still looks keyed up, like a spring a little too tightly wound. “I just…I don’t like this, Sammy, this bullshit about me trying to be all sympathetic and sad. I don’t _want_ people to feel sorry for me. I’m sick of it already.”

Sam watches the faint lines around Dean’s mouth deepen into a frown, unsure of how to respond. He decides to go for his classic fallback. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t want to _talk_ about it,” the other man hisses. “I want to _forget_ about it, Sammy. I…I don’t want to be that guy on the videos. I just want to pretend that none of that shit happened to me, that it was someone _else_.” Dean’s voice cracks on the last word, and he reaches for the plastic cup of water beside him, taking a few gulps before setting it down and continuing. “And every time someone looks at me like they pity me, all I can think about is _why_ , and it’s driving me crazy.”

“All right.” Sam still has no idea what he should say; he can tell that Dean is walking some emotional tightrope right now, and he doesn’t want to be the one to push him over the edge. “What _do_ you want, then?”

“What?” Dean’s chest is heaving a bit, like he’s trying hard to keep himself in check, and the effort is exhausting him.

“You don’t have to talk about it. I wish that you would, if not to me then someone else, because I don’t think it’s good to keep everything bottled up inside of you. But it’s your choice.” Sam falters for a second, thinking about all of the times that Dean _didn’t_ have a choice. “But what do you want, Dean? What do you want to be once you’re out of here? What do you want people to see when they look at you?”

“I don’t know.” Dean’s brow furrows in obvious thought. “A normal person, I guess. Just normal. No one special.”

Sam seriously doubts that Dean will ever be seen as no one special; his looks alone brand him as someone to be noticed. _Way to cross into perv territory_ , Sam scolds himself, snapping his attention to Dean’s confused expression. “Okay. What else? Maybe if you have a goal in mind…”

“I want to get a job. A real job. And a dog.” A corner of Dean’s mouth lifts upward in the briefest of smiles. Sam can, for some reason, picture him with some big goofy yellow lab, its tongue lolling out of its mouth as it waits for Dean to toss a tennis ball in its direction. “And…other stuff. Like books. I want a lot of books, and I’m going to read them all.”

That’s a mental image Sam has a little more difficulty conjuring – Dean, curled up in a chair, maybe a pair of glasses perched on his nose, completely immersed in the book resting on his lap. Sam’s edging dangerously close to perv territory again with that idea, and he forces himself to refocus. “That sounds like a pretty solid plan, Dean.”

“Yeah.” Dean gets this soft, dreamy cast to his face for a second before he abruptly snaps out of it. “Do you think that I can have a normal life if I beat this rap, Sammy? Do you _really_ think so?”

Sam shrugs. “Sure. Why not?”

“Because…because I’m not normal?” Dean slumps forward and scratches the back of his neck. “Once in a while Master James let me watch the television in his office, you know? And I saw these shows with people just living their lives, and everything looked so easy for them. And I don’t know how to do all of that stuff, like getting a credit card or using a computer. I’ve never even touched one of those things yet. They kind of scare me.”

“I’ll show you sometime. Computers aren’t really that scary. Just promise me that you won’t use my laptop to surf for porn, okay?”

Dean gives him a blank look. “What’s porn?”

“Uhh, nothing important.” Sam really doesn’t want to get into that conversation, especially since Dean’s a pretty sharp tack. It won’t take long for him to realize what the stuff in the attic, at least what Fitzhugh had taped, could be called, no matter how unwilling one of its participants had been.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re weird, Sammy?”

“Yeah, once or twice.”

* * *

 

The lawyer from CUFF emails Sam that night, confirming the details of the interview, and Sam’s quick to reply with Dean’s stipulations – no talk about rape, sexual assault, or the content of the video tapes used in his first trial.

That done, Sam settles back onto his couch with a bottle of whiskey. He’s been trying to cut back on his alcohol consumption – he’d never been much of a drinker, just a few socially here and there, before this case – but he figures he can let himself slide one night. Nevermind that he's allowed himself to “slide just one night” far more times than he wants to remember since meeting Dean.

He stares up at the ceiling and wonders what all makes up a normal life in Dean’s mind, besides the job and dog and books. Sam starts thinking about Dean carving out a little life in the suburbs – he’d be a construction worker, maybe, or a mechanic, or something else that lets him work with his hands, Sam figures; he just seems the type – maybe with Lisa and Ben. A nice little happy family, with Ben never needing to know who his real father is or what Fitzhugh’s plans had been for his son. Backyard barbecues, building a tree house for Ben, raking up the leaves and doing yard work, helping Ben with his homework assignments. And Dean could be happy with Lisa, because she’d understand him in ways that no one else really could, since she’d lived through it all herself. Maybe a couple more kids eventually, with Lisa’s dark hair and Dean’s startling green eyes.

It seems idyllic, perfect.

Why, then, does it make Sam’s heart ache painfully when he pictures it?

 


	36. xxxvi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my wife, who so patiently pecked at my walls and didn't run when they came crumbling down. It's a privilege to be your partner in life. <3

**xxxvi.**

The first interview attempt doesn’t go so well; the CUFF lawyer calls Sam afterward, complaining that he’d barely been able to get more than two or three words out of Dean at a time. Sam assumes that Dean’s sabotaging himself again until he talks to him the next day; Dean hems and haws for a while, but finally admits that the guy sounds too much like Fitzhugh for his comfort, and Dean got “stuck in his head” during the conversation.  Sam is shocked that Dean is willing to share that with him - the guy goes out of his way to keep everything bottled up inside of him - and he doesn't want to make a big deal out of it, but...yeah, it _is_ kind of a big deal, at least to Sam.

The second interview is much smoother; CUFF selects another lawyer, Alice Turner, who has a brusque, no-nonsense attitude that Dean seems to respond to well. Even better, Alice calls Sam less than a week later to tell him that she’s landed a ten-minute time slot on NPR to discuss CUFF and its efforts. Dean’s case isn’t going to play a prominent role in the discussion – CUFF has several irons in the fire, Alice tells him, but she’ll be sure to devote at least a quick mention to Dean’s plight.

Sam can’t complain, especially when he tunes in to catch the interview. Alice knows how to play up to the host well, and she interweaves the various stories of other fae slaves across the nation like an expert. The way she ends the conversation, at least in Sam’s eyes, is especially poignant.

“CUFF has interviewed over a thousand fae slaves. I’ve personally spoken with nearly two hundred. And, do you know what?” Alice’s voice softens, but there’s a hint of steel there, too. “I’ve never met one – not _one_ – who wasn’t subjected to some type of abuse, whether it was physical, emotional, sexual, or, more often, a combination of all three. What does that say about our society, to allow this to happen? What does that say about _us_?”

Hell, if Sam wasn’t already invested in the issue of fae slavery, he probably would be now, after listening to the interview.

* * *

It seems that Sam isn’t the only one to catch the interview on NPR; nor is he the only one affected by its message, apparently. The next day, not even twenty-four hours after Alice took to the airwaves, he gets a call from the DA’s office. Sam’s even more stunned to discover that it’s Mike Feldner, the DA himself.

To be honest, Sam’s a little giddy as he listens to the brief message asking him to return the call at his convenience. Nearly everyone in the state knows Mike Feldner, the tough-as-nails prosecutor who made a name for himself going after child molesters and rapists like a rabid bulldog during his tenure as an ADA. Sam had studied some of Feldner’s cases in law school, even briefly entertaining the idea of following in the prosecutor’s footsteps, until Sam had decided that the other side of the aisle appealed to him more.

And, to his surprise, it sounds like Feldner might be looking to deal.

* * *

The DA’s office isn’t as lavish as Sam is expecting it to be. A plethora of green plants bask in the sunshine, lining the window ledges, and the secretary is pleasant as she buzzes Feldner to announce Sam’s presence. The DA’s desk is old and scarred, and Sam can’t help but stare at it for a second as Feldner rises from the chair behind it.

“Brought this up with me from the old days when I was an ADA,” Felder explains, offering his hand in Sam’s direction. He has a firm handshake, and his eyes crinkle in the corners as he smiles. “Figured I did a lot of good work at this desk, and I’m not going to get rid of it just because it’s expected of me.”

Sam smiles a little nervously and sits down when Feldner gestures to the other chair. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Feldner.” He hopes he doesn’t come across as a schoolboy meeting his idol for the first time, although it kind of feels like that right about now.

“Likewise. I’ve heard a lot of good things about the public defenders’ office, and your name has been mentioned more than once.” Feldner leans back in his chair, stretching his legs beneath the desk. “Anna Milton – she interned under me during my last year as an ADA. I don’t know if she’s mentioned it to you.”

She hasn’t, at least not to him, but Sam nods anyway.

“Fine lawyer, Milton. She broke my heart a little when she decided to accept a job as a public defender. I was hoping she’d follow in my footsteps.” Feldner shrugs. “She’s damned good at her job, though, damned good. Makes me glad that our paths don’t cross very often, at least in the court room.”

Feldner doesn’t try many cases anymore, just the extremely convoluted or politically sensitive ones. Sam’s not sure why Dean’s case qualifies as either, really.

“And speaking of damned good lawyers.” Feldner grins at him again. “You took an unwinnable case and deadlocked a jury over it, Sam Winchester. Very impressive. Makes me wish that you’d decided to work for my office after graduating from law school yourself.”

Sam’s beginning to wonder if Feldner’s being genuine or just buttering him up. The praise is nice, especially since his job is usually so thankless, but Sam isn’t as naïve as he used to be. “Thank you, Mr. Feldner.”

“Mike, please.” Feldner leans forward, folding his hands on the desk in front of him. “And that’s why we need to talk, Sam. I feel empathy for your client, I truly do. I’m not completely familiar with the case just yet, but I’ve looked over some of the more damning testimonies. You know I’m sitting here now because of my work prosecuting child molesters, and what happened to your client is terrible. Not against the law, technically, but from a human standpoint…you understand.”

“And that’s why he shouldn’t be facing the death penalty, or any jail time.”

“Now, you know that’s not going to happen, Sam. Killing his master, beating a prison guard into a coma – those can’t go completely unpunished.” Feldner purses his lips. “But, I agree that the death penalty is too harsh. If he was human, well, your client would likely be walking out of here with a self-defense argument, at least on the murder.”

“He _is_ human,” Sam seethes.

“I’m speaking about in the eyes of the law, Sam.” Feldner fixes him with a pointed stare. “We both know, legally speaking, he’s nothing. You’re being clever, getting his case out there, aligning yourself with CUFF. My ADA underestimated your cunning. I won’t.” The expression on Feldner’s face clears suddenly, like clouds lifting to reveal the sun. “But it doesn’t need to get to that point, does it, Sam? I’m thinking manslaughter – eight to fifteen years, for the murder and the assault combined. He could be out in seven, with good behavior, although that might be a bit of a problem for him, from what I hear.”

Sam’s no fool; he has yet to hear of one case where a fae slave was paroled before the end of their sentence. If Dean’s given eight to fifteen, Dean’ll be around forty-five before he sees anything beyond a prison fence. If he makes it that long.

“It’s very generous of you,” Sam begins, and it really is; the DA doesn’t have to offer him anything. Most lawyers would see this as a gift sent from heaven above; hell, before Sam had gotten to know Dean personally, he probably would have, too. “But I believe that my client would prefer to take his chances with a jury.”

“Really? You’ll turn it down before you even discuss it with your client or his owner?” Feldner gives Sam a concerned look, and Sam knows for sure now that Feldner is trying to play him. It’s like watching an actor in a role – every facial expression is practiced, honed to perfection, and, ultimately, fake. The patina of Sam’s hero worship starts to tarnish.

But Feldner _does_ have a point – Sam should at least present the offer to Dean, let him decide. Maybe, now that Dean is considering another fate besides the electric chair, he’ll want to accept it. And since, legally speaking, Dean can't enter into any binding legal contracts, Sam could be completely underhanded and bypass him completely, taking the deal to Veronica Fitzhugh to sign. He won't do that, however, even though he's pretty sure he could convince the widow to sign anything if she thinks it'll benefit Dean somehow. She doesn't exactly strike Sam as being completely with it, to put things mildly. But Dean's had enough choices denied to him; Sam won't contribute to another one. Besides, Sam is sure that they can do better, though – time served, with maybe a year or two for the assault, at the absolute worst.

“I’ll tell my client about your offer,” Sam manages to bite out. “But I’m certain that he’ll decline it.”

“Maybe he should hear it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak,” Feldner proposes. “I could drop in on your client, answer any of his questions. Maybe I’ll be able to convince him that it’s truly in his best interest to accept it.”

“If that’s what you want to do.” It won’t hurt anything, at least, to have Feldner pay Dean a visit in jail, at least with Sam present for the entire meeting. Dean’ll probably clam up or glare at the DA, and Feldner will get over the notion that Dean’ll plead out before the next trial.

* * *

Feldner makes good on his promise, requesting a meeting with Dean and Sam the following afternoon. Sam arrives first, a full half-hour before the scheduled assembly, to prep Dean for what will likely happen.

“The DA wants to get you to agree to accept a sentence of eight to fifteen years for manslaughter,” Sam begins without preamble, as soon as Dean sits down at the table in the special conference room reserved for such meetings. “It’s up to you if you want to accept it, but I will strongly advise you not to, Dean. We can do better than this.”

Dean crosses his arms. “Okay.”

“I’m thinking a clear self-defense angle from the get-go, Dean. At least I know what I’m getting into from the start this time.” Sam would have used that defense last time, too, had he known prior to the beginning of the trial how applicable it would be. “We might be able to get you out of here with time served, even if they do find you guilty of something.”

“You’re quite the little optimist today, Sammy.”

“That’s what you pay me for, right?”

“Yeah, except I don’t have any money. I guess you’re just going to have to settle for being rewarded with my stellar company as payment, huh, Sammy?” Dean cracks a thin smile. “I think you’re getting the better deal. Just saying.”

Sam blinks, a little surprised. This is the sarcastic Dean he hasn’t seen much of lately, not since the gang rape and subsequent medication. Sam wonders if Dean’s stopped taking his meds, but he doesn’t want to ask, just in case he hasn’t and gets the idea to do so if Sam mentions it. He hadn’t realized how much he missed Dean’s edge of humor, even though it can be infuriating at times, until it was nearly gone.

“Just be good today, Dean. Don’t start getting mouthy with Feldner. Just try to stay as quiet as you can and let me do the talking, okay? And before you say more than four or five words at once, whisper them in my ear and ask my opinion before spouting off. I don’t want you getting yourself in trouble.”

Dean gives him a sly grin. “Why, Sammy, you’re asking me to whisper sweet nothings in your ear? I think I’m already in trouble.”

Sam has long ago figured out that Dean hides behind his wit, but…Jesus, it’s hard not to think bad thoughts when Dean gets on a roll like this. “Please, Dean, I’m being serious.”

Dean lifts one shoulder in a disinterested motion. “Okay. Whatever. I’ll be good, Sammy, just sit here like a bump on a log and let the big boys do all of the talking.”

“Dean…”

There’s a knock on the door behind them, likely signaling the arrival of Feldner. Sam rises from the table, and after a half second of hesitation, Dean follows suit, wiping his palms down the front of his orange jumpsuit.

“Be good,” Sam hisses before turning on his best, most winning smile and pivoting around. “Mr. Feldner, I’m so glad that you—”

Something is wrong, seriously wrong; Feldner looks like he’s seen a ghost, with all of the color seeping from his face and his mouth agape. Sam’s puzzled, and he shoots a glance over at Dean, whose lips have thinned into a bloodless grimace. Dean’s eyes are hard as flint as he stares at Feldner, and Sam can sense the tightness in his client’s shoulders, the way his muscles are bunching like he’s preparing for a fight.

“What--?” Sam manages to get out before Dean seems to snap to his senses.

“Master Michael,” Dean whispers in a dead voice.

The two words don’t make sense, at least not to Sam. Surely not…surely _Feldner_ , the prosecutor who had put away hundreds of perverts in his career, the elected official who devotes most of his free time to charity…surely _he_ isn’t Master Michael.

Except the look on Feldner’s face says it all – the swirls of fear and shame and surprise tinged with something else, something even darker – it spells the situation out as clear as day.

Dean’s leg shackles sound inhumanly loud in Sam’s ears as he lunges forward, his two hands forming into claws, aiming for Feldner’s throat.

 


	37. xxxvii.

**xxxvii.**

A low buzzing fills the room like a hive of bees, swarming into Dean’s ears and deafening him, until all he can hear is the beating of his own heart, racing in his chest. His field of vision narrows, like he’s peering through a long, dark tunnel, and the only thing he can see is Master Michael. Master Michael, after all of these years, here, now, standing right in front of him, eyes wide with surprise. Pale blue eyes, Dean remembers, with flecks of brown in them. He will never be able to forget those eyes.

For a moment, the entire picture wavers in front of him, like it’s a mirage, not real. None of this is real, can’t be, because Dean is only six years old, standing in Master Michael’s study, his knees trembling. There is no trial, no CUFF, no dead Master James, no Ben, no Mistress, no Sammy; there is only Master Michael at his desk, with Dean waiting, knowing what is coming and yet being unable to do a thing except dread it…

Dean tries to draw in a deep breath, but he can’t. He can’t breathe. He can’t _breathe_.

And then Master Michael smirks at him. _Smirks_ at him, the fucker.

The buzzing stops. The panic clawing at the back of his throat drops into the pit of his stomach, cold and unsettling, and an eerie calmness fills Dean. He is not six years old. He is no longer powerless. He is not afraid.

Dean is moving forward, but he doesn’t remember taking the first step, or the second, or even the third. He raises his hands in front of him, sees them curled into weapons, and he is simultaneously confused and pleased. He bares his teeth, letting nature take over, letting his body do what it will. So close, so close, only a few feet away—

And then something stops him.

Dean glances down, sees the arm hooked around his middle, yanking him backwards, and it doesn’t make sense. He tries to jerk away, to twist and fight, but the arm is joined by another, holding him tight around the waist, pulling him further away from Master Michael. He’s hauled hard against someone’s stomach and hips, and Dean lets out a howl of rage as he struggles harder.

_Not again,_ he promises himself as he scratches and snaps at the person restraining him _. Not this again. No one is doing this to me_ _again_ _._

The door behind Master Michael bangs open, and two guards rush into the room. Except…there have never been guards in the study before. Dean glances around him wildly, trying to get his bearings, but he’s completely blank, unsure of where he is or what he’s doing there, only that he has to fight this time, because god damn it, he is not going to allow this asshole to take him back to the study.

Someone shouts something behind Dean, but Dean can’t make out the words; his world has narrowed into a fighting-twisting-snapping place, where he has to break free or he’s going to be dragged back to hell, and there’s not going to be any escape this time; if he’s sure of anything, it’s that.

And then Master Michael is gone; Dean doesn’t even see him go, isn’t sure where he is now. The door is shut, and the two guards – why are there guards here? – are glaring at him, like he’s some rabid animal. And maybe he is. Maybe that’s what he’s always been. Maybe that's all he can ever be. The guards take a few steps forward, their eyes fixed on him, like, like…

_Attic_ , Dean thinks wildly, _friends of Master James_. And just like that, he's back in the attic, like he's never left at all. He hasn't, has he? Master James had always told him the only way he'll leave the attic is in a body bag...

He drops to his knees, apparently surprising the man who had been holding him, at least enough that he lets go, and Dean crawls into the corner, his back literally up against a wall, his heart thumping painfully. Except that’s not right, either; this isn’t the attic. Is it? There’s no bed, just a table, some chairs…a man hovering over him, vaguely familiar, even though Dean can’t place him. Another friend of Master James?

“Dean?”

His name, sounding so far away and warped. His name. The man knows his _name_. How does he…?

“ _Dean_. Listen to me. _Calm_ _down_. It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.” The man turns to the guards, a pleading note entering his voice. “One minute. Just give me one minute. He won’t hurt me.” And he sounds so very certain of that statement, that Dean won’t attack him, even though some half-hidden memory in Dean's mind tells him that he has before, that he's tried to hurt this man in the past, but he can't remember why, why would he lash out at..

“Sammy?” He isn’t sure, isn't sure of anything right now.

It must be right, because the man smiles and kneels down beside him. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

“Okay,” Dean parrots, although he feels miles away from being okay. His heart begins to slow down; his lungs start to function once more. Memories crowd his mind, and Dean tries to place them in some semblance of order. _Sammy_ , he thinks, focusing on that one thought, that one person. Sammy, with the cheap suits and the fancy words and the always wanting to talk. The lawyer. The friend. Sammy. He remembers Sammy.

“Jesus, Dean, I am so sorry.” Sammy’s mouth twists into a frown. “I had no idea that…Jesus, this is so fucked up. _Feldner_. Fuck.”

Dean blinks at the lawyer, the adrenaline that has fueled him seeping out of his pores, leaving him exhausted and boneless. He slumps against the wall, liking the solid feel of it behind him, protecting him.

The lawyer pushes his hair out of his eyes, concern etched on his features. “Are you okay?” His hand creeps forward, tentatively hovering over, but not touching, Dean’s shoulder.

Dean winces, bites the inside of his cheek until he can taste blood, forces himself to nod.

Sammy doesn’t appear convinced. “Maybe we should get you to the infirmary…”

“ _No_.” The word comes out more forcefully than Dean intends it to, so he tries again, gentler this time, softer. “No. I’m…okay.”

The lawyer’s brow furrows. “All right.” Sammy glances up at the guards, who are milling around on the other side of the room, like they’re not sure what to do with themselves. “We’re okay here.”

The door opens, shuts again, and then it’s just Dean and the lawyer in the room.

“I didn’t know,” Sammy murmurs again, like it’s the only thing he can think of saying. “I swear I didn’t know.”

“Yeah.” Of course Dean believes him; how _could_ Sammy have known? Master Michael had always been so careful, keeping his private and professional lives secret; hell, until today, Dean had had no idea that Master Michael was involved in the legal field at all. All Dean had ever known about Master Michael’s career was that it must pay well and that it kept him in the city overnight at times. Those had always been the best nights.

“Are you really okay?” Sammy leans in closer, staring into Dean’s eyes, like he’ll be able to see the true answer in them. “You…weren’t yourself, there, for a while.”

“I’m fine.” If Dean keeps saying it, maybe he’ll be able to convince himself that it’s true, or at least convince the lawyer that it is.

Sam offers him a half-hearted smile that quickly fades away, leaving a grimace in its place. “I want to go out there and break his neck with my bare hands. Jesus, _Feldner_. Do you know how he made a name for himself? The son of a bitch prosecuted sex crimes – child molesters, rapists… _damn it_. All this time he was…and he…” Sammy closes his eyes for a moment. “He was…you were…”

“Yeah.” Dean swallows hard, trying to clear his throat. “For eight years, at least, I think.”

Sammy flinches, like Dean’s words physically hurt him, and then he gets that look in his eyes, like he really, _really_ wants to touch Dean, because in Sammy’s world touch is good, a hand on the shoulder is comforting and not a promise of bad things to come, but is afraid that it will make him go over the deep end again.

As if Dean ever gets out of the fucking deep end. As soon as his head is above water, his past snakes around his ankle and yanks him beneath the surface again. One of these days, he’s going to grow a brain cell or two and let himself drown so he doesn’t have to deal with this shit anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Sammy says again, like if he repeats it often enough, it’ll somehow creep into Dean’s heart and repair all of the damage there.

“Yeah, well, it’s not like he did something that a hundred other guys didn’t do, Sammy. It’s fine.”

A fire sparks in those normally calm eyes, making Sammy look less like a lawyer and more like some sort of half-crazed avenging angel. “It's not fucking _fine_ , Dean. You deserve so much more than you've been given, and I wish you'd see that for once. That bastard is hurting kids – if anyone deserves to be in jail, it's him, not you. And he's going to be your ticket out of here, whether he likes it or not.”

 


	38. xxxviii.

**xxxviii.**

Sam knows that he is in for a long night tonight; there is no way in hell that he’ll be able to fall asleep, so he settles in with a pot of coffee, a few binders of notes and evidence in Dean’s case, and an entire box of strawberry PopTarts. He usually tries to eat healthy, but today has him on edge, and he couldn't care less about what he shoves in his mouth right now as long as it keeps him going long enough to finalize his plan of attack when it comes to Feldner.

He still can't believe that the sick fuck who was Dean's first master and the DA who'd made a name for himself prosecuting sex crimes is the same person. _Talk about a split personality_ , Sam fumes to himself as he opens his laptop. _How can the guy fucking live with himself, knowing what he does to kids_? And if Sam is sure of one thing, it's the fact that Dean isn't the first of Feldner's victims – or the last. The bastard probably has some poor fae kid stashed at his house right now, at this very moment. Pedophiles like him don't change, and the thought of some other little boy suffering what Dean had suffered makes Sam nauseous.

He knows that he could ask the judge to recuse Feldner from the case, but Sam doesn't think that is his wisest move, at least not at the moment. It's kind of like one of his dad's poker games, and although Sam was never great at poker, he still picked up a few tricks along the way.

After googling the DA's name, Sam reads that when the jackass was first elected, he'd run on a platform of being tough on crime, especially crime against children. “Figures that he's the biggest fucking child molester around,” Sam grouses to himself. Would a threat about going public with what he had done to Dean make Feldner want to deal? He's coming up for reelection soon, and dropping a bomb like this might blow him out of the race – or at least make him think twice about trying to make an example out of Dean. Sam isn't sure if Dean will get on board with that idea, but if it's a good enough bluff, maybe Feldner will bite...

Something pings in Sam’s brain, and he searches through his email for the latest newsletter from CUFF. There were some statistics in it, some sort of national poll, something about – and then there it is, the key that might open the door of Dean's jail cell.

_A National Poll conducted by Gallup states that 39% of Americans believe fae slavery is wrong; 73% believe that sexual contact with an underage fae child should be prosecuted as a crime_

Sam's reaction to the email when he’d first read it had been absolute disgust at the remaining 61% and 27%, respectively, but now he can see a pie chart in his mind, with 73% of Feldner’s votes from the last election falling away into ashes at his feet.

It’s time to play hardball.

* * *

The second meeting between Felder and Sam is nothing like the first. The older man eyes Sam warily as he invites him to sit down; there are no pleasantries exchanged, no easy banter, and the only thing that Sam feels for the DA at the moment is a simmering, murderous hatred that he is absolutely certain that he isn’t doing a great job at disguising, judging from the pinched look on Feldner's face.

“I was surprised to receive your message requesting a face-to-face consult.” Feldner taps his thumb against that scarred desk, and Sam’s blood pressure spikes as he thinks of all of the scars that still mar Dean's back. Maybe Feldner hadn't hit Dean – Sam isn't sure, it's not like Dean is the most forthcoming about his past – but it doesn't matter. The physical scars criss-crossing Dean's back don't even compare to the mental and emotional scars that the naked eye can't see, and Feldner is definitely responsible for a good amount of those.

“I am sure you understand that we must tread lightly here,” the DA continues, still drumming his fingers along the wood surface, and Sam imagines lunging across the desk and breaking every one of those fucking fingers one by one.  Slowly.

“I understand that you are a sick, twisted psychopath who raped at least one small child repeatedly,” Sam replies at last, grinding his back molars so hard he's certain that he'll be footing a hefty dentist bill in the near future. “And before I leave here, you will understand _me_.” He reaches into his briefcase and tosses a printed copy of the poll mentioned in CUFF's newsletter, giving the DA a brief second to scan the numbers. “You will understand that I could ruin your career and bury you so deep that no one would be willing to touch you for the rest of your miserable life, and though I assure you that it would give me _intense_ pleasure to do so, I think there may be another alternative that we will both find more amenable to our shared interests.”

Feldner's Adam's apple bobs sharply, and Sam glares at him with all of the feral rage that is seething inside of him. How dare this fucker hurt Dean and then think he'll railroad him into fifteen years of prison? What kind of asshole steals a little kid's innocence, sells him to an even worse monster when he tires of him, and then thinks he has the _right_ to have any say in that man's future? Not on his watch.

“You will understand that my client has suffered far, far more than any person should, and you are directly responsible for that suffering. You will understand that I would not think twice about walking out of here and going directly to the first news station I can find and telling them everything I know about you and your sick little perversion. But I won't do any of that – provided that you wrap all of the charges that my client faces into a nice, tidy ball and allow him to plead out his case to time served and set him free. In return, I will not take what I know – and what I have incontrovertible proof of – to the press.”

“That's impossible,” Feldner splutters, his cheeks darkening into an ugly shade of red. “It would be political suicide for me to do that.”

“You won't have a career once I am through shredding you. And I assure you, you sick fuck, that I will _destroy_ you.” Sam bares his teeth into a smile that he is certain appears more than a little shark-like. “I will rip your entire life apart in front of the cameras, and I will enjoy every _second_ of it.”

Feldner blanches at the venom in Sam’s voice. “I can’t let him go without punishment – he put a guard into a _coma_ —”

“My client has been punished nearly every moment of his life simply for existing. It’s _enough_.” Sam withdraws another sheet of paper from his briefcase – this one detailing all of the charges, both already filed and potential, that Dean faces. “You will give my client the opportunity to take an Alford plea on all counts. You will tell the judge that you believe that my client has paid his 'debt' to society and that he should be set free. You will tell everyone who asks that you believe that sexual assault against a child, regardless of fae heritage, is a crime that should be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law, and you will be lobbying for laws stating that.”

Feldner is as pale as the two sheets of paper on his desk now.

Sam’s lip curls in disgust at the man sitting across from him, and his final words come out in something that sounds a lot like a snarl. “And, if you ever so much as _look_ at him once you walk out of that courtroom, I will personally slit your throat and watch you bleed out without batting an eye.”

 


	39. xxxix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that I've been MIA in the past few weeks. I've been in and out of the hospital with a severe kidney infection (pyelonephritis), and I'm going to have to have surgery to remove the stones causing it once the baby is born. But we are both doing well otherwise, and we are having a girl. :) Of course our primary concern was the baby is healthy, but I have to admit that I was really hoping for a little girl this time (I wanted one of each, and we have our little boy already). I can't wait to meet her, even if she is determined to kick me black and blue (or at least it sure feels like it)!

**xxxix.**

Dean stares up at the bunk directly above his and listens to his cellie snore. It's earned the dude the nickname “Buzzsaw” in protective custody, but Dean doesn't really mind the noise. It's not what's keeping him awake right now, at any rate.

Nope, that honor goes to Master Michael, the bastard. Dean has barely slept since their cozy little reunion yesterday, and he's trying his best not to give in to the aching tiredness in his bones tonight, either.

 _It's not like I'm afraid_ , Dean tells himself, even though he knows that that is a fucking lie. He _is_ afraid, because Master Michael is the original monster in the closet, at least for Dean. He'd been an innocent little kid when he'd been sold off to the man, not so different from Ben...

 _Jesus, don't you dare think about Ben_. Because Dean had fallen asleep for a few minutes last night, long enough to dream that he was back in Master Michael's study, right before the guy had sent him to the auction house. The pervert had bought another little boy, Adam, and had made Dean watch...except last night, in his dream, it hadn't been Adam being hurt; it had been Ben.

 _Think good thoughts. Isn't that what you're supposed to do?_ Except Dean doesn't have a lot of good memories, and he's drawing a big fat blank right about now. He tries to focus on how it had felt to straddle Master James that last time, his hands wrapped around his throat, feeling the satisfying crunch of cartilage beneath his fingers as he'd squeezed as hard as he could, watching the life disappear from the fucker's eyes, knowing that it was finally _over_. He was going to leave the attic finally, and no one was ever going to fuck him again.

 _Yeah, except that isn't exactly how it went down, now, did it?_ His exhausted mind flits to the stairwell. Funny, he's never given the incident that much thought. Sure, the guys had beaten him, fucked him, and ruptured his spleen, but it isn't like they'd really done all that much to him that dozens of others hadn't before. It'd hurt from what he vaguely remembers, and the whole losing-an-organ thing sucks, but compared to the attic...well, it really wasn't all that bad, considering. He ranks the whole thing pretty low on the “traumatizing events that have happened in my lifetime” scale. He'd been more embarrassed by the fact that Sammy had found out about it than what had actually happened to him in the stairwell; the lawyer probably thinks he's some loser who either can't defend himself or enjoys having multiple guys plow his ass. And who can really blame Sammy for thinking either of those things, especially after watching the tapes from the attic? Christ, just knowing that Sammy has seen those is humiliating.

Either way...time for new thoughts.

 _Good thoughts_ , he reminds himself, although he's scraping the bottom of a barrel that has been long dry. He can't think about...the kid...or killing Master James. The only thing left is Sammy.

Dean allows himself to remember the moment when he'd lost it in court. Okay, maybe that's not such a great memory, but he'd been hurting so much after Mistress' testimony that he'd kind of gone boneless against Sammy's neck there for a minute. It'd been...not bad. Normally Dean hates the smell of cologne – a lot of Master James' business friends had practically drenched themselves in it, and... _no_ , not those memories – _Sammy_. Sammy had smelled good. Clean, like soap, but the good kind of soap, not the kind that they have in prison or Master James had allowed him to use, and there had been a hint of something else, too. And his skin had been soft, like he uses lotion or something – hell, it's Sammy, he probably _does_ use lotion on his face – and the hand on his back had been...okay, too. At least he hadn't minded it. In fact, for a moment, Dean had felt almost...protected? Maybe? Sammy's hand had been heavy between his shoulder blades, but Dean had never once thought that the lawyer would hurt him. He's always been gentle, except for yesterday when he'd had to practically pull him off of –

 _No_.

 _Sammy_.

Sammy telling him off in that room during his trial. _“You want to know who cares, Dean?_ I _care, too damned much to just let you throw your life away like it doesn’t mean jack, Dean. It does matter._ You _matter.”_

Sammy rubbing his back in open court, allowing him to cry, letting him hide his face from the onlookers in the court who don't care.

Sammy telling Dean that he doesn't deserve this, that he deserves a good life with good things and good people in it.

Sammy's the best person Dean has ever known – too good to be his real friend, true, and who in their right mind wants to be friends with someone like Dean, anyway? But maybe, if Dean does end up getting out of here, Sammy will allow him to call him once in a while – not very often, Dean's sure he has a lot of friends and is probably really busy, and what interesting things will Dean have to tell him? _Oh hey, guess what, last night I slept for a whole four hours before waking up in a cold sweat because I had a nightmare about two guys double-teaming my ass until I was raw? You might remember that one because I know Master James taped it. And what's new in your life?_ But maybe once a year or so, Sammy will let Dean call him and talk for a few minutes. That would be nice, to hear the lawyer's voice on the phone, to think that maybe Sammy remembers him a little bit.

Dean tries to picture the scene, but the details aren't coming. He doesn't really know what normal is supposed to look like – all he has are some snippets from television. So he just closes his eyes and rolls onto his side, imagining what it will be like with Sammy's voice in his ear, soft and gentle and a bit crackly, like he's just woken up, but Dean's phone call is important enough for him to lose a little sleep over it, because Dean _matters_ , Sammy had even said so once...

And Dean must fall asleep, because the next thing he knows, the lights are flipping on in his cell, signaling that it's five thirty in the morning, and Dean realizes that the bad dreams he'd been so afraid of had never even made an appearance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 3/27/18 - I'm sorry, but this story is going to be on a hiatus for a while due to personal, in real life issues. I haven't forgotten this story and I fully intend to finish it someday, but I can't work on it right now because it's just too painful for me to even look at the word document right now. I really am sorry.


End file.
